The Gaming Piece
by Mademoiselle Sosostris
Summary: Gwen, a 17 year old fanfic writer, finds herself transported into Middle Earth by a rune charm... and she's determined not to become just another Mary Sue! Year 16, FA. Not your typical omygoshI'mWHERE kind of story! R&R!
1. Don't Call Me Mary Sue!

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except Gwen. Middle Earth belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and the Gaming Piece belongs to a Norse god named Heimdall.**

**A/N: so this is my first attempt at a LotR fic, it's kind of a parody and kind of not... after this introductory chapters, they should get quite a bit longer, though I don't know how often I'll be updating (hopefully at least once a week, possibly quite a bit more). This is set after the War ofthe Ring. PLEASE review and tell me whether or not I should continue!**

**

* * *

**

_"POERDH (Gaming Piece)--One of the most mysterious of the Runes, it has never been translated. However, in mystic tradition the 'gaming piece' refers to the lawful and rightful outcome of the wearer's fate or destiny."_

_--The Enchanted Glyph, Rune Meanings

* * *

_

**Chapter One: Don't Call Me Mary Sue**

The first thing you need to know if you're going to read this story is that I am one of you. That's right, I, Gwenith Amelia Sherbourn, am a writer of fanfiction. Well... I was. This isn't fanfiction; this is an autobiography. So technically I don't even know why I'm posting it here... oh well.

I feel relatively secure saying that if a fanfic writer got one wish, it would be to go into some fictional world, to become a part of the stories they love enough to weave tales about. At least, I know _I_ felt that way. I was your pretty stereotypical fanfic writer—mostly Harry Potter, dabbled in Pirates of the Caribbean, even attempted a fic about the Phantom of the Opera once. I read almost as much as I wrote, too; I loved to discover new worlds in others' writings, whether they were published and original or... 'borrowed' for fanfiction.

But the one thing I hated more than anything else, was a Mary Sue.

I know, aren't I just little Miss Potty Mouth?

I'm sure that even as you're reading this, the cogs are turning in your mind, and you're coming up with a thousand and one different possibilities for the reasoning behind naming the introductory chapter of my new story (ahem, autobiography, thank you very much) _Don't Call Me Mary Sue._ And I'm sure that at least one of you has hit on the real logic driving that decision.

But before I reveal the truth, I need to tell you a little story.

My favorite relative has always been my great-aunt, whom I call Hester. She's this batty, bitchy old woman who gives as good as she gets no matter who's on the receiving end, and she just so happens to have a soft spot for her anti-social, nonconformist great-niece. (That's me, by the way).

Hester also has a rather obsessive fascination for the occult—and she's a pack rat at that.

This means that, one absolutely gorgeous day in June, I found myself drafted into cleaning out her attic. It wasn't so bad; the windows were open, there was a nice cross-breeze, and I was blasting Beethoven as I worked (yep, I'm a certifiable geek, in case you hadn't noticed). Plus Hester kept me supplied with fresh lemonade and her to-die-for mincemeat cookies. But the best perk of all was that as payment, I could keep anything I found up there that I liked.

I've always had rather odd taste, myself. Mostly I wear what 'speaks' to me—you know, like when you walk into the store and that art-deco inspired tee is just _screaming_ at you, 'Choose me! Choose me!' So when I saw the necklace, I automatically knew what I wanted to keep.

It had a very medieval air about it; made of what looked (and felt) like iron, it hung on a plain black cord. The only thing special about it was the rune embedded into its smooth, hard surface.

When Hester came up the next time, I asked her about it.

"That's _poerdh_," she said. "The gaming piece. It was never given a definitive translation, but it is believed to help the wearer find their true destiny."

Nothing could have appealed to a romantic like myself more. The afternoon passed in a blur of classical music, lemonade, and dust bunnies, and by the time I finished, it was almost supper time. I took the gaming piece out of my pocket and pulled it down over my head, smiling, and rose to go downstairs—my stomach currently had my spine in a stranglehold in its desperation for food.

Only, I had forgotten that before I stood, I was kneeling under the slant of the roof. I hit my head.

Hard.

And that, kiddies, is how I, Gwenith Amelia Sherbourn (you can call me Gwen), ended up in Middle Earth.


	2. Old Man Willow and a Few New Friends

**A/N: so, here it is, chapter two (and two of my favorite characters from the books, Tom Bombadil and Goldberry!) I hope I wrote them well... I reread all the chapters about Tom and Goldberry in FotR, trying to get them right...**

**FFAMasquerade2005: **yay! My first reviewer! Thank you... I hope you like this!

**MB: **thanks for the heads up about the review thing... actually, I own a gaming piece! Unfortunately, it has yet to transfer me into my favorite book... Eagerly awaiting your oneshot! Thanks for reviewing!

* * *

**Chapter Two: Old Man Willow and a Few New Friends**

When I came to myself, I wasn't sprawled out on the attic floor with an aching head. I wasn't stretched out on my great aunt's sofa with a bag of frozen vegetables held against my aching head. And, or so my aching head told me, I wasn't dead, either.

I was sitting up against a tree which, when I tipped my (aching) head back, I realized was easily half again as tall as Hester's monster of a home. I looked around, feeling strangely calm considering the circumstances--there was nothing but trees, earth, and tangled underbrush as far as I could see. The gloom under the trees was so thick that I couldn't tell whether it was noon or evening. My back was pushed up against the trunk of a particularly massive old willow, with my legs stretched out before me into a narrow, partially-overgrown path.

And the trees were whispering.

At least, that's how it seemed to me. The branches above my head were thrashing, and in my growing panic and paranoia, I was almost certain there were words hidden amongst the thunderous rustling--and they _weren't_ exactly welcoming!

Shaking and shaken, I scrambled to my feet, brushing bark and dirt from my butt and thighs.

The whispering grew more and more tumultuous. Nearby trees joined in--and yet, not a breath of wind brushed my flushed cheeks.

"Who's there?" I demanded stupidly, driven to speech just for the comfort of a voice I could identify, even if it was my own.

The other trees fell still and silent, and the willow's leaves fluttered softly. I felt my trembling muscles relax and my shoulders sag wearily as the whispers began to form a sort of pattern, a vaguely rhyming cadence...

The willow was singing.

My eyelids drooped and it seemed suddenly to me that the willow's elegant branches were beckoning me within, to once again take up my seat amongst its roots, to rest my sleepy head on that cushion of moss and fallen leaves...

Unbidden, a memory leapt to the forefront of my mind, a scene from my favorite book. As they drifted off to sleep, two hobbits were slowly swallowed by Old Man Willow's gnarled malice.

To this day, I think it was curiosity that kept me awake long enough to stumble far enough down the path that I escaped the willow's enchantment. Could that really have been Old Man WIllow? Or was it just my imagination? And if I was in Middle-earth, how had I gotten there?

My fingers closed instinctively over the gaming piece, and I stopped dead in the hateful gloom of the wood. _Oh, shit._

I would _definitely_ have to explore this further!

That thought made me laugh--_like I have any choice! If I am in Middle-earth..._

A slow grin spread across my face as I looked around 'the darkling wood,' continuing down the path with a new bounce in my step.

I WAS IN MIDDLE-EARTH!

* * *

My good mood didn't last nearly as long as I would've wished. Soon enough it became apparent that it was early morning, and that the thick heat of the wood was only going to get worse as the day progressed. Soon my worn, torn jeans were clinging disgustingly to my thighs and knees, and sweat beaded my face and neck. My skin felt clammy and cold with it, and my hair was plastered against my forehead and the back of my neck. I had never put Middle-earth down as a humid place, but apparently (at least in whichever wood I was in), it was.

And which wood _was_ I in? I knew of several--Lothlorien being the most notable, of course. Then there was the Old Forest in the Shire, and Fangorn. Based upon the descriptions from the books and my own observations (not to mention the feeling that there were several hundred pairs of angry eyes fixed on my back, and all of them were muttering ways to off me with impunity), I figured that it _wasn't_ Lothlorien.

And what about the willow? Was that, indeed, Old Man Willow? Or was it a different tree of the same type? If it _was_, then I would be in the Old Forest, which probably would not turn out well for me. But, then again, the trees in Fangorn were just as malicious... perhaps there was another Old Man Willow there?

Shaking my head, I just continued down the path, figuring that I could worry about that when I was out of the woods (forgive the pun, please).

And then, of course, there was that teensy-weensy little matter as to time...

If I had (basically) figured out the answer to the question "Where am I?", I had absolutely no clue how to respond to that nagging little query, "_When_ am I?"

I just prayed I hadn't plopped down in the middle of the War of the Ring... though it _would_ be kind of fun to kick some Orc arse... hee!

I amused myself with images of that sort for a while, until my stomach began to grumble. Then it began to complain. Then, out of sheer hunger and frustration, it began trying to strangle my spine in an attempt to send that oh-so-important message.

"FOOD! Need--food--now," I panted, only then realizing that I'd been talking out loud the entire time. Oh, well. It wasn't like there was anyone around to hear me.

Not only did I need food, but I needed something to drink. The stick of gum I'd had in my pocket helped at least keep saliva flowing for a while, but after a few hours the wad turned rock hard, and the flavor became quite nasty, so I spat it out, lamenting the lack of trash cans and the necessity of littering (yes, add 'tree-hugger' to my list of not-always-so-endearing epithets). A few more hours passed, and my tongue was sticking to the roof of my mouth, my stomach had given up strangling my spine and was whining weakly, my head was spinning and I was easily inches away from passing out due to the combination of heat-dehydration-shock-and-near-starvation.

Oh, yeah, and I hadn't gotten out of the woods yet.

Letting loose a string of curse words, I gave in. I knew that if I shouted, I could attract the attention of something I probably wouldn't want to meet--but then again, I might just get the attention of a passing Elf or something, and that would _definitely_ be a good thing! So, after weighing the options for a fraction of a second in my usual (stupidly) impulsive manner, I determined a course of action.

_"HELP! PLEASE, SOMEONE HELP ME! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD--erm, ERU! PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE_..."

And so on and so forth. I won't bore you with the details of my desperate little rant.

The important thing is, it worked! Yes, indeed, my nonsensical, irrational, often completely incomprehensible plea did its job commendably well. Of course, I was shouting too loud to even _hear_ the man coming up the path behind me. I didn't hear anything until someone cleared their throat behind me--then I jerked around--

And ran right into him.

"Ow!" I cried, massaging my forehead. The little fellow that had come upon me rubbed his ruddy cheek, as well, but his cheery smile wasn't abated in the least.

"What's this then? You're making a ruckus. The trees are bound to get upset if you keep at it like this!" he said, smiling at me. "Lost your way, have you, little friend? Well, then! Come along with me, Tom'll get you fixed right up and set in the right direction! Have you eaten lately? You look a bit pale. Thirsty, eh? And tired? Tom can fix that!"

I stared at him, taking in the cheerful countenance (quite out of place in this gloomy wood, I can tell you), the blue jacket, and the yellow boots. He stood only a few inches taller than me, probably about 5'3", and it seemed that every once in a while his words would lapse from rhetoric to lyrics...

"You're Tom Bombadil!"

"_Tom_ _Bombadillo_! Yes, indeed, I am! And who might you be, my pretty little lass? Come, walk while we talk, the day's lazing to a close and Goldberry's waiting!" So saying, he tucked my grimy, sweaty, sticky hand into the fold of his arm and led me down the path like we were walking up a red carpet to some sort of awards show or something. Tolkien never mentioned just how gentlemanly Tom Bombadil really was.

"Oh," was all I said, though. Suddenly I realized just how stupid it would sound to say 'Hi, I'm Gwen, and I'm from another world. I know it sounds crazy, but this innocent little necklace brought me here! Or at least, I _think_ it was the necklace. You never know. Time-space continuums can be tricky things.'

Yeah, that would go over well.

"I'm Gwen," I said finally. He hadn't rushed me to say anything (for which I was eternally grateful), but I also got the feeling that he knew what was going on--or at least, he knew that I didn't feel comfortable sharing my whole story. Though I don't know who, other than Gandalf and Aragorn, I could possibly trust more than Tom Bombadil! "I'm not from around here."

"Well, I knew that!" Tom laughed, lapsing into song again.

"_Your knees are scraped and your eyes are sore_

_With trying to pierce the wood's false night_

_You're not from near, nor farther shore_

_So Tom can see with just plain sight. _

_What far place do you know best? _

_Where do you rest your head? _

_But, my dear, first you must rest_

_Answer Tom's questions after you meet a bed."_

I sighed with relief. "Thanks--erm--Master Bombadil."

"No troubles whatsoever, m'girl! You're weary and sore and hungry (for your stomach's groaning loud enough that surely it must have scared the predators away, for thinking it was some larger beast). It's been many a year since last old Tom and lovely Goldberry had a guest in their humble home! Not since the hobbits passed this way, indeed!"

"Hobbits! What year is it, Master Bombadil?"

"I believe most Men would call it the year 16 of the Fourth Age, though we know how Men's thinking is distorted by mortality. It would take me months to count the number of years that have truly passed since the beginning of time! Oh, it's been a lovely ride," he said with a dreamy smile. I laughed out loud, then clapped a hand over my mouth, afraid to alienate this welcome companion in the frightening woods.

"Sorry," I mumbled.

"Don't be, my dear! Laugh loud and hearty!" he said. "It keeps the trees at bay, you know. The only thing they like to hear better than their own voices (though they wouldn't admit it to save their bark), is merriment! Yes, I know you do!" he said, shaking a facetious fist up at a nearby tree, which seemed almost to lean down and caress Tom's head with a long branch. "They're not nearly so hard-hearted as they think. Except for Old grey Willow-man, of course. _Him_, you must watch out for, my dear."

I nodded, thinking that this excuse could have come at a better time--like, perhaps, the moment I woke up in Middle-earth.

Abruptly, the woods ended and a long, smooth lawn stretched out before us, brushed with the evening's first dew; only the smallest sliver of the sun remained peering over the roof of Tom Bombadil's house, a cheerful little place that looked straight out of a fairy tale. _Then again_, I thought, _this practically _is_ one, so I guess that's only fitting..._

"_Goldberry, Goldberry! Shining river-daughter_

_With eyes like the autumn sky, and hair like light on water!_

_Goldberry, my beloved lady, come and greet our guest!_

_Fetch the sweets and wine and bread, set the table with the best!" _Tom sang, his voice ringing across the lawn.

A moment later the door was thrown open, and golden light poured out from the hearth within. A woman's graceful figure was silhouetted against the brightness, and she raised a hand to wave, a joyous laugh resounding through the clearing just as Tom's song had. Unable to stop myself (and feeling both rather foolish and delightfully free), I tore my hand from Tom's arm and ran to greet her, stopping just short to stare at her.

Goldberry the River-daughter was just as beautiful and poised as Tom was ruddy and bumbling. Long silver-blond hair flowed over her shoulders and back in a shining wave, and her bright eyes laughed as surely as her voice. She wore a dress of silvery-green, like the underside of birch leaves, and a silver belt with each link formed to resemble a flower; her feet were bare.

"And who is this that you've brought home, Tom? A daughter of Men? Not often are they seen within the bounds of the Old Forest! Come in, come in, dear child—rest yourself by the fire, for you look weary, and we have a whole night of laughter and singing ahead of us yet!"

So saying, Goldberry took me by the hand and led me into Tom Bombadil's house.


	3. Harfoots, Stoors, and Fallohides, Oh My!

**Disclaimer: all of the ickle hobbitses belong to J.R.R... none are mine.

* * *

**

**Chapter Three: Harfoots, Stoors, and Fallohides, Oh My!**

It didn't really sink in that I was in Middle-earth until I awoke the next morning in a feather bed with the Old Forest visible from the window above my head, and Tom Bombadil and Goldberry singing cheerfully in the background.

Moaning, I pulled the blankets up over my head and curled up into a ball. I was in _Middle-earth_. I was _in_ Middle-earth. _I _was in Middle-earth. Anyway I said it, it gave me the same feeling—equal parts of a terror so paralyzing that I was shivering under the blankets and an incredulous joy so strong that I wanted nothing more than to jump up and start singing along with Master Bombadil and the River-daughter.

I lay there for easily another half hour, trying to wrap my brain around the situation. Finally, I came to three conclusions.

One: I was obviously _supposed_ to be here, since the gaming piece was said to help the wearer find their rightful destiny.

Two: I didn't particularly want to go back. Sure, I would miss my family (some of it), but I'd never felt like I fit in there. It was too... I don't know... not _me_.

Three: I was absolutely starving.

With a frustrated groan, I threw off the blankets and swung my legs over the edge of the bed, glancing around the room. I was still in my jeans and tee, having fallen asleep before I could ask if there was a nightgown or something I could borrow. Beside the bed sat a small table laden with a silver bowl of water, which refracted the sunlight brightly, nearly blinding me. I winced and stood up, shuffling out of the glare, and continued to explore.

The room was relatively small; I didn't remember reading about any place like it in the books. It held only the bed, the small table, a chair beneath the window, and some sort of wardrobe-type-thing. I decided that it would be a good idea to find some new clothes (my own had already been dusty and wrinkled _before _Middle-earth, and the Old Forest had done nothing to alleviate that), so I opened the wardrobe and began to rummage around through the clothing within. Finally I found an outfit that looked like it might fit, so I took it out and headed over to the window. A popped my head out, and saw Goldberry on her knees in the garden, fingers covered in dirt, her pale hair gleaming in the sunshine.

"My lady Goldberry?" I asked, attempting to speak in the formal way that the characters in the books had. "May I borrow this dress? My own clothes are in a sad state."

"Of course, little sister!" Goldberry said, standing and waving cheerfully at me. "What is mine is yours!"

"Mi casa es su casa, eh?" I asked softly, not thinking she'd hear.

"Pardon?"

"Oh—nothing. Thank you!" I withdrew my head—my face was burning, and I knew I was blushing brightly—and quickly changed into the dress. I resolved to ask her where I could bathe—as soon as I'd had something to eat, of course. My stomach had seemingly wrapped itself around my spine and was shaking it angrily.

I've never really been a girly-girl, but I wasn't exactly a tomboy, either. Up until—well, up until about the time I was finished cleaning Hester's attic—I never really gave my appearance much thought. I wasn't a slob or anything—it was just, to my way of thinking, no one gave a damn what I looked like anyway, so as long as I was clean, didn't smell, my teeth and hair were brushed, and whatever I was wearing was reasonably tear-free and unstained, I was good. Given this rather low-maintenance sentiment, you wouldn't automatically put me down as someone who likes to dress up, right?

Well, I do. I _love_ to dress up. Sometimes when I was in a particularly goofy mood (or romantic—well, with me they're sometimes the same), I would put on one of my few nice dresses, apply a little light makeup, and dance around my room to stuff like _Moon River _and _Shall We Dance_, that song from _The King and I. _

I know. I warned you I was weird. Or did I? Well, anyway, I'm warning you now.

I think it's something in the female genes that make us love to get all glammed up. Every girl I know liked, in some way or another, to make themselves gorgeous and then show it off. (If I'm wrong, let me know. This is just from my point of view, so I guess I really shouldn't be speaking for all of female-dom, should I? Ah, well).

Wait, I lost track of the story. Okay, right, dress.

I managed to get myself into the clothes, which fit surprisingly well. In fact, they fit me perfectly. I couldn't help but laugh a little. "It's kismet!" I spun around quickly, watching as the red skirt flared out. Besides the skirt, there was a fawn-hued bodice, and under that, a plain white blouse with loose sleeves. I knew how to put it on because, style-wise, it wasn't too different from my costume in _Brigadoon_, our school musical the previous year. I slipped my feet back into my Birkenstocks and headed out of the tiny room, looking for a way out into the garden.

I needn't have bothered. I'd barely stepped out of the room when Goldberry entered, her arms laden with flowers. "Ah! Gwen! You look charming, little one! Come, help me put these flowers in some water, and then we must get you fed, yes?"

"Yes!" I agreed heartily, taking a handful of blossoms from her. Soon they were soaking up water in a glass bowl, and Goldberry was slicing some bread while I poured (with a somewhat guilty conscience) a little bit of red wine into two pitchers, at her behest. "Do you mind if I—er—water this down a bit? I've never really had any sort of alcohol before, and... well..." I shrugged, embarrassed.

She gave a musical laugh. "As you will, little one. You've a wise head on your shoulders! Perhaps you will be a good influence on our halfling friends!"

My eyebrow quirked. "Halflings? Am I going to meet some?"

"Of course you shall! The Old Forest is no place for a daughter of Men, and, poor lost child, you will be best cared for among the little folk." The sideways glance that the River-daughter sent in my direction then gave me the uncomfortable feeling that she knew I wasn't from Middle-earth. "Once you have had a chance to fill your belly and wash, Tom Bombadil shall take you to the halflings. Oh, but you must return to us and visit, sweet child! You've a lovely laugh and a charming accent, though I know it not, and Master Bombadil and I do crave company from time to time."

I blushed at her compliments. "I will," I promised, accepting the plate she handed me. It was simple fare—freshly baked bread, a wedge of cheese, an apple, and some carrots to munch on—but it sated my hunger, and the water-down wine gave everything the nicest hint of rosy gleam.

After we had finished eating, I helped Goldberry haul in a few buckets of water from a stream near the house. When she'd asked, I'd confessed having a few qualms about actually bathing _in_ the stream; I was immensely relieved when she admitted that there was a 'washing room,' as well. The extra labor was well worth the privacy, in my mind.

Goldberry sat just outside the 'washing room' while I bathed, embroidering, and kept me company with her cheerful flow of speech. Soon I knew more than I'd ever wanted to about the comings and goings of the trees (yes, the trees) and the beasts of the Old Forest. When I confessed my encounter with Old Man Willow, she gasped, making me drop the soap.

"Little one, there is certainly more to you than might have been expected! Old Man Willow is a deadly foe—many, far too many have fallen prey to his traps..." her voice drifted away for a moment, before returning, contemplative. "I wonder, how did you know to escape him? So few have such knowledge."

I nearly dropped the soap again, but forced myself to laugh a little. "I had heard a story of a few hobbits who were very nearly snared by his song, and just as I began to fall asleep, I remembered it and ran as far away as I could," I said. Speaking in this lyrical way was becoming very comfortable.

She made a little affirmative sound, but I could tell that she didn't completely believe me. Luckily, I was done at that point, and after dressing and dumping the bathwater out onto the lawn, it was time for me to find Master Bombadil and be on my way.

* * *

I stopped at the top of the hill, swiping the back of my hand across my forehead. It came away with a frosting of sweat; it was a warm day, and the long walk and heavy skirt weren't helping much. I'd rolled up the sleeves past my elbows and ditched the petticoat-type-thing that went under the skirt not long after Master Bombadil left me.

He had taken me only as far as the edge of the Old Forest, leaving me with directions to Brandy Hall and a note for the Master of Buckland; he swore that it would earn me a place in Brandy Hall. I attempted to read it once I was far enough away from the Old Forest that I could be sure Master Bombadil wouldn't see, but much to my dismay, though the language Westron was indeed (pretty much) the same as English, the script was entirely different. I couldn't make out a word of it.

I had been walking for quite some time since he left me, always with an inner doubt that I'd gotten lost. After all, I'm quite notorious for my lack of sense of direction. My relatives all used to make fun of me for it—in fact, once one of my cousins bought me a shirt that read "Not All Who Wander Are Lost," and then, using fabric paint, added the words _But Some Are!_

Yeah, I'm really that bad.

But as it turns out, Master Bombadil's directions were absolutely on the dot. I arrived at a small hill not more than a mile or so away from a—please bypass the rest of this sentence if gushing makes you squeamish—frankly quite adorable little town. It was nestled right into a little hollow in the surrounding hills, with roads leading up and about. Outside of the town itself, which centered around a long, stout hall (no doubt Brandy Hall), there were several dozen small, rotund houses perched like cheerful, brown beetles in the green grass, and from here I could just see smoke rising out of a few hills—hobbit holes, no doubt.

I'm ashamed to admit it but I squealed with delight. I am, after all, but a mortal girl who'd found herself in her favorite book.

Feeling somehow refreshed, I started down the hill towards Brandy Hall—

And found myself living up to my nickname, 'Clutz.'

* * *

I didn't completely pass out, but after tumbling over the edge of the hill—I swear, I didn't notice that it ended so suddenly—and landing rather roughly with a patch of parched, hard earth as a pillow, I was definitely more than just a little out of it for a few long moments.

After a while, my thoughts became far more coherent, and I realized that the voices I heard around me weren't just in my head.

"—that hair—"

"--quite a tumble—"

"—what's she doing h—"

"Look! A note!"

Small hands flicked into my pocket, where the note that Tom Bombadil had given me was kept. It must've fallen out a bit when I took my little shortcut. I mumbled something that even _I _didn't understand.

"She's awake!"

I heard a few delighted shrieks and footsteps. Blinking and cursing, I opened my eyes and frowned up into the round, cheery faces surrounding me. "Good morning!"

"It's afternoon, you twit."

"Yes, well, she doesn't know that, now does she? Besides, it does have the right _connotations _if you say 'good afternoon,'" responded a little girl with a pert nose and large eyes, glaring at a boy who could only have been her brother.

"I'm awake! Stop bloody talking about me like I'm not here," I growled, sitting up. My head spun dizzily, and I felt small hands steady me as I swayed where I sat.

"Careful now, Miss, you've got quite a bump there! I'm Daisy."

"Mmf," I grunted noncommittally.

"Leave her be, Daisy," chided one of the other hobbit-children. "What's your name, Miss, and what brings you to Buckland? I'm Faramir Took, third cousin twice removed to the Master of Buckland," he said rather proudly, puffing out his chest.

Who could help but smile, when faced with the incorrigible charm of one young Master Took?

"I'm Gwen," I said, staggering to my feet. When I felt steady enough, I brushed the grass and dirt off my skirt, then glanced back up at the embankment I'd tumbled over. I whistled lowly through my teeth. "Yowch."

"Is that Elvish? That sounded Elvish, didn't it, Daisy?"

"No, I'm sure it wasn't, Ham."

"But—"

"It wasn't," I confirmed to Daisy's brother. He looked a little disappointed.

"But Gwen! That's an Elvish name, that is—not a very creative one, mind you—"

"_Hamfast!"_ Faramir Took hissed, glancing sideways at me.

"—well, it isn't! Who would name their daughter 'girl'?"

"My parents," I said dryly, snatching the letter that Hamfast held in his hands and turning to Faramir. "You said you know the Master of Buckland?"

"Yes, I did!" Faramir said, glowing with pride once again.

"Oh, goody. Can you show me the way, then?" I asked, tempering my sarcasm with a small, not-exactly-heartfelt smile. After all, I still hurt like hell. That was like a fifteen foot fall—I was lucky I hadn't broken anything.

"Indeed, I can. Follow me, Miss Gwen!"

As I followed the three happily skipping hobbits, I was torn between the urge to vomit from the sickening sweetness of the scene or burst into spontaneous song, á la Broadway musical. Either way, I was immensely amused.


	4. Is It Just Me?

**A/N and Disclaimer: Wow... so I looked up the hobbits online, and it turns out that after the trilogy ended, Sam and Rosie had thirteen children. _THIRTEEN. _That's a baker's dozen. Hm... those are some busy hobbits. ;0) All of the hobbits mentioned in this chapter belong to J.R.R. Tolkien, except for Glory—I invented him all on me onesies. **–_beams proudly–_

'**The Bonny Swans' does, indeed, belong to me. It was on my album 'The Mask and Mirror' which sold so well that I'm now living in a mansion on the Mediterranean. If you can't sense the sarcasm, please call your physician and sign up for a CAT scan at the earliest opportunity. Also, the song is _sooo _long (it's like seven minutes or something) that I cut out a few of the middle stanzas.

* * *

**

**Chapter Four: Is It Just Me, or Is Thisa Little _Too_ Easy?**

From what I knew of the books, Hamfast and Daisy were both the spawn of that most loyal of gardeners, Samwise Gamgee. Roly-poly and frankly quite adorable, their amiable bickering made the walk to Brandy Hall go much faster. Hamfast was chubbier than the other two, with tawny curls on his head and toes (though the latter were much shorter than the former), and a penchant for skipping. Daisy was petite as hobbits go, with a sweet face and a snub nose; along the way, she somehow found herself at my side, and slipped her little hand in mine.

I'm not an excessively affectionate person—nor am I one of those girls who, when they see an infant, automatically revert into that almost offensive state of cooing and baby-talk. But no one—I repeat _NO ONE_—could have resisted such lovable little children as these three.

Faramir was the eldest of them at sixteen. I was surprised to learn that he was actually the son of Peregrin Took. For most of the walk, he chattered over the other two's bickering, regaling me with tales of his father's fame and bravery. I couldn't help but smirk a little.

"Who's the Master of Buckland?" I asked when he paused to take a breath; I knew that if I hesitated, he would only continue talking, and I'd _never_ get a word in.

"Oh, Uncle Merry. He isn't really our uncle, but our fathers are such good friends that we call him and Uncle Samwise that. Say, did you ever hear about the time that my father raided Farmer Maggot's mushr—"

"You told me."

"Oh. Then how about the time that he sang for the Stew—"

"Told me that, too."

"I did? I don't remember... oh, well. We're here, anyway. Oi, you two! Scatter off, then!" Faramir said, shooing Hamfast and Daisy, who were ten and eight respectively, away. Hamfast shrugged, bade me farewell, and ran off to where a couple of other hobbit lads were playing a game that vaguely resembled marbles. Daisy, however, clung defiantly to my hand.

"I'm coming, too, Far, and there's nothing you can do to make me go away!" the little thing said, stamping her foot and staring crossly at her unofficial cousin.

Faramir's brow began to cloud over as he scowled at the little girl; to prevent any further shouting, I just said, "Of course you can come, Daisy, if you behave like a good girl and be quiet."

Faramir looked at me in surprise as Daisy's frown faded into a sweet smile and she nodded up at me. Apparently she'd taken a liking to the strange girl from the Old Forest. I gave her a secret little wink as Faramir shrugged and led the way into Brandy Hall, a long, low, fat building. Daisy giggled quietly.

"There he is! Uncle Merry! Uncle Merry! Master Bombadil's sent you a—" he looked up at me guiltily, and I gave him a stern look á la Minerva McGonagall. The little twit had read my letter! Though, I have to admit that I was almost more peeved at the fact that he _could_ read it than he _had_ read it. "I mean, someone's here that wants to talk to you!"

Meriadoc Brandybuck towered over his halfling companions at four and a half feet—the effects of those Ent-draughts, no doubt. He also looked nothing at all like Dominic Monaghan; his face wasn't as long, there was no cleft in his chin, and his eyes were further apart. He bowed elegantly to me, and I managed a very self-conscious little curtsy. "Welcome to Brandy Hall! The name's Meriadoc Brandybuck, but you can call me Merry—everyone does. I'm the Master of Buckland. How can I help you, Miss..."

"Gwen. Gwen Sherbourn," I said, smiling nervously down at him. "Master Bombadil sent me. Here—he wrote you a letter, explaining." I handed the note to him with no little trepidation—after all, for all I knew Master Bombadil could've been complaining about me, instead of recommending me.

But Merry's face only showed pleasure and surprise. I breathed a sigh of relief—I should've known that Master Bombadil wouldn't ever do anything so mean-spirited!

"Well, Miss Sherbourn! Ol' Tom says here that you're looking for somewhere to stay in the Shire. Is this true?"

"Indeed it is," I said, trying once more to fall into their pattern of speech. Talking like a twenty-first century teenager would only make me stick out more, and as it was, I stuck out like a sore thumb. At five foot one, I had never in my life felt so _tall._

"Let it never be said that Meriadoc Brandybuck turned away anyone seeking shelter in Brandy Hall! Welcome to Buckland, Miss Sherbourn."

"Call me Gwen, please."

"Gwen, then," he said, looking pleased. "I see you've met Faramir and Daisy."

"And Hamfast!" spoke up the little girl, who still had my hand in her grip. "Only he went off to play with Glory and Merry and Pippin."

I blinked in confusion—but I was talking to Merry, wasn't I? Oh... didn't Sam name two of his sons after Merry and Pippin? That would explain it.

"Glory," Merry the Elder informed me, "is my son, Glorfindel Brandybuck. But come! It's time for supper! We can introduce you around then, eh?"

I allowed myself to be led off by Daisy and the Master of Buckland, gazing around curiously as I went. I warranted more than a few 'curious gazes' myself, of course—I could hear hobbits whispering as we passed. News traveled like wildfire in Brandy Hall; by the time we reached the dining hall, which was easily the largest, grandest of all the rooms I'd so far seen, the walls were practically lined with hobbits waiting to get a glimpse at the member of the Big Folk who'd be dining with them.

"Glory!" Merry called out as a group of young hobbit lads, Hamfast among them, appeared. A boy with Merry's nose and eyes stepped forward, looking expectant. "Go fetch the pillow for our guest!"

I looked at the Master of Buckland curiously as he led me through the crowd and towards the head of the table, where he motioned for me to stand by the left side. "We've had a fair few of the Big Folk dine at Brandy Hall before, and the tables are too low for any chair to fit; albeit, most of them were quite a bit bigger than you!" he chuckled. "But we have a sort of large cushion that you can sit on. Most of my guests have claimed it passing comfortable!"

The cushion that Glory Brandybuck dragged in a moment later was, indeed, quite comfortable. I sat with my legs crossed under the table as the benches filled. The table was practically groaning with food; I could see at least three large turkeys, dozens of loaves of bread, loads of dishes filled with vegetables and stews and the like, and several baskets of fresh fruit. The carved wooden goblets were full of some sort of fruit drink that had a slightly alcoholic tang. I sipped at it and turned to Master Merry (I'll refer to him as such for the rest of the story to prevent any confusion between him and Sam's Merry).

"Is this alcoholic?" I asked.

"Oh, very mildly so," he said. "It's just a bit of mead mixed with fruit juice. Delicious, isn't it? It's my Estella's own creation," he said, looking proudly at the hobbit who had just sat down beside him. "'Stella, this is Gwen Sherbourn. She'll be staying here at Brandy Hall. You'll help her find something to occupy her time, won't you, love?"

"Of course!" Estella Brandybuck neé Bolger said, smiling at me. "How do you do, Gwen?"

"Very well, thank you. Your husband has been very hospitable."

"That's my Merry," she said with a sweet smile as she piled some buttered potatoes onto her plate. "Taters, anyone!"

Daisy, who had taken the seat at my side, beamed and passed her plate over. Mine followed it.

I'll say this much for hobbits; no _wonder _they eat so much! The food was so good that, as I finished my second helping of everything, I lamented the fact that I'd soon be at least twenty pounds heavier. At the end of that second plate, though, I found myself practically bursting at the seams and waved off any more helpings; Master Merry was horrified by this and demanded to know whether or not I was sick. Estella laughed brightly and informed him that Big Folk often didn't eat as much as hobbits, and that, of anyone, Master Merry should know that.

Supper was also very informative; I learned that, though most of their family was in Hobbiton, several of Sam's children (Daisy, Hamfast, Merry, Pippin, and Goldilocks) were staying at Brandy Hall for the summer. I also learned that Master Pippin and his wife, Diamond—along with Faramir, of course—actually lived at Brandy Hall, but had gone off for a few days to visit Diamond's family in Long Cleeve. After much begging, Faramir had been allowed to stay behind.

By listening to them chatter around me, I began to accustom myself to the hobbits' presences and culture. I felt rather like an anthropologist would when invited to dinner amongst some hitherto unknown tribe—full of questions and eager to learn more.

"—Gwen?"

I looked over at Master Merry, who was speaking. "Pardon? I must have drifted off a bit."

"I'll say!" he laughed heartily. "I asked if you'd be willing to spin us a tale or sing a bit. It's custom for a guest to provide the entertainment."

I raised my eyebrows. "B-b-but—"

Damn stutter. Always showed up at the worst of times.

"Now, Gwen," Estella said in a mollifying tone, glancing warningly at her husband, "we'll understand if you don't want to, dear. You've had a trying day."

"Song!"

"Tale!"

"C'mon, Gwen!"

Apparently the rest of the hobbits didn't agree with Estella so much. Sighing, I stood. "All right! One song. Let me think for a moment." I pondered desperately—I couldn't sing anything rock'n'roll or oldies or anything. I didn't know much about space-time continuums, but that definitely did not seem like the best choice. It was rather fortunate, then, that I was a fan of traditional Celtic music—one rather astonishing Miss Loreena McKennitt in particular. I ran through the roster of her albums mentally before hitting on one that I knew well enough to sing. "All right, this song is called 'The Bonny Swans.'"

I cleared my throat and began to sing.

_A farmer there lived in the old country, a hey hee oh and me bonny oh!_

_He had daughters, one, two, three—the swans swim so, a bonny oh!_

_These daughters, they walked by the river's brim, hey hee oh and me bonny oh!_

_The eldest pushed the youngest in, the swans swim so, a bonny oh._

"_Oh sister, oh sister, pray lend me a hand, hey hee oh and me bonny oh!_

_And I shall give you house and land, the swan swims so, a bonny oh!"_

"_I'll give you neither hand nor glove, hey hee oh and me bonny oh,_

_Unless you give me your own true love, the swan that swims, a bonny oh!"_

Now, not to brag or anything, but I can sing. And I don't just mean that I have the ability to use my vocal chords and lungs to make my words into a melody—I mean, I can _sing_. It's like a gift or something. And apparently, it was one that my vertically-challenged hosts enjoyed thoroughly. At this point they were clapping along, and a few of the younger ones were dancing around. I couldn't help but grin as I continued.

_He made harp pins from her fingers fair, hey hee oh and me bonny oh,_

_He made harp strings from her golden hair, the swan swims so, a bonny oh_

_He made a harp from her breast bone, hey hee oh and me bonny oh,_

_And straight it began to play alone, the swan swims so, a bonny oh!_

_He took her to her father's hall, hey hee oh and me bonny oh,_

_And there was the court, assembled all, the swan swims so a bonny oh!_

_He laid the harp down upon a stone, hey hee oh and me bonny oh,_

_And straight it began to play alone, the swan swims so, a bonny oh!_

"_There does sit my father the King, hey hee oh and me bonny oh!_

_There does sit my mother, the Queen—the swan swims so, a bonny oh!_

_There does sit my brother, Hugh, hey hee oh and me bonny oh!_

_And by him, William, sweet and true—the swan swims so, a bonny oh!_

_And there does sit my false sister, Anne, hey hee oh and me bonny oh!_

_She drowned me for the sake of a man, the swan swims so, a bonny oh!"_

They all applauded as I, blushing furiously, curtsied. Daisy, in particular, was vociferous in her support of my talent. Master Merry shouted about having me sing every night, and Estella seconded the notion; she said that I could play minstrel to Brandy Hall.

Then it hit me like the proverbial sack of potatoes.

I sat down, hands in my head, and gave a quiet wail that wasn't heard by anyone except little Daisy, who looked at me concernedly. The rest were all listening to young Merry, who was now spinning a tale involving a mushroom-loving dragon and a curious hobbit lad.

"No... it can't be..." I whispered, staring at my hands as though expecting them to turn purple any moment.

But it was.

The dress had fit me perfectly.

I'd found my way with minimal trouble to Brandy Hall.

I was welcomed without question among the hobbits.

And now I had been invited to sing for them daily—probably the closest thing to a job in the music business that existed in Middle-earth.

Was I becoming a Mary-Sue?

"_NOOOOOO!"_


	5. Unknown Attributes of the Smaller Race

**Chapter Five: The Unknown Attributes of the Smaller Race**

"_NOOOOOO!"_

I didn't realize I'd spoken aloud until Daisy looked up at me, her sweet little face all scrunched up into an expression of concern. I clapped a hand over my mouth—yes, I did, please don't point and laugh, I'm ashamed enough of my clichéness as it is—and stared right back.

"Are you unwell, Gwen?"

Good Lord, the children in Middle-earth were articulate. At eight, I would've thought that 'unwell' was the opposite of a well, like a big pile of rocks or something. I glanced around quickly; nobody else had noticed my muffled exclamation of terror. "Oh—er—no, I'm fine, Daisy, thank you for asking," I said, giving the little girl a nervous smile and tentatively ruffling her curls. She giggled and seemed to forget that I'd ever spoken, turning her attention back to young Merry's story. It was safe to resume my train of thought.

Was I becoming a... a... _oh, no, I can't even say it... _Mary-Sue? That most dreadful of all dreadful creatures? The invention of the most inane mind? That cliché, perfect, angsty, irritatingly outspoken, everything-always-goes-my-way ideal of so many amateur fanficcers?

_NOOOOOOO!_

This time, I was relatively certain that I kept my anguished wail on the inside. Surely it was a coincidence that Estella looked over at me at that moment. Surely.

_DAMMIT! No, no, no... please, G—Eru, tell me this is all in my head!_

No divine inspiration touched me. No omnipotent voice whispered inside my head that I was, in fact, delerious when I noted the similarities between myself and the dread Mary-Sue. On the other hand, I wasn't struck down by a lightning bolt, either. That could only be a good thing.

Though, quite frankly, death was preferable to becoming the anathema of all fanficcers... no, I couldn't say it. I couldn't even _think _it. Not again.

And it was true. All of it. No one could _possibly _be this lucky in real life... I mean, _come on! _Yeah, so I wandered around the Old Forest for a few hours. But there _had_ been that flash of brilliance when, nearly entrapped by Old Man Willow, I'd recalled Messrs. Merry and Pippin's plight. And what, precisely, were the odds of stumbling across none other than Tom Bombadil before I fell prey to a werewolf or a rogue troll or something? I was also blessed enough—though I couldn't read it—to at least be able to _speak _Westron, though I was relatively sure that it was the same thing as English (surely if I was speaking some strange language, I would have realized it by now...?).

And the dress! It had fit like a glove—still did, as a matter of a fact, despite the fact that I had eaten way more than was good for me. Seriously, if I'd been wearing jeans, I would've had to let out my belt a hole by now out of sheer discomfort and bloating. These hobbits could really pack it away.

Then there was always the matter of having a great voice, and being automatically given refuge in Brandy Hall, and, in the very hour of my need, falling in not amongst some strange hobbit-children but mini-halflings that actually knew the man I was looking for?

It reeked of Mary-Sue-ishness.

In that moment, as I listened to young Merry finishing his boisterous tale of fungi, famished hobbits, and frivolous dragons, I made a decision.

No matter what happened—no matter how hard I had to work—no matter what pain I went through to do so—I would _NEVER _become a Mary-Sue.

And that, dear reader, was my first mistake.

Now, I'm sure you're thinking—mistake? What mistake? That's a good thing. Mary-Sue bad. Non-Mary-Sue good. Good decision.

But aside from the sudden inability to form complete sentences, I had also forgotten the fact that I was probably the single most unlucky person _EVER_.

Ah... I'm getting another brainwave... now you're thinking, _But so far, everything's gone your way! Enlighten us, O Great Psychic Gwen, as to the meaning of your avowal!_

All right, chances are you _weren't _thinking that—but guess what? I plan on enlightening you anyway.

So what, exactly, was so unlucky about being saved from imminent death of starvation and insanity by Mr. Cheerful himself? What was the problem with finding a _gorgeous_ outfit that fit so perfectly? Why was I fretting over the fact that I'd just received the warmest welcome of my entire life, and was currently stuffed sick on absolutely delicious food?

I had just made my life _so _much harder.

Think about it—if I'd accepted my Mary-Sue-ishness, where would I end up? Singing in Master Merry's hall for the rest of my natural life, or until this damned rune decided it was time to leave (whichever came first), loved by all, well-fed, and beautifully clothed.

Instead, I had condemned myself to an eternity of attempting to overcome those damned clichés. And yes, that meant that I was turning down Master Merry's offer to act as Brandy Hall's minstrel. I couldn't demean myself. But... I _love _music. Seriously. You know in _To Kill a Mockingbird,_ when Scout's talking about how her teacher ordered her to stop reading, and she says something along the lines of, "I didn't know how much I loved it until I lost it—one does not love breathing"?

Yeah, that's pretty much me and music. It's oxygen, as far as I'm concerned.

And I would never, _ever_ sing in Brandy Hall again.

Ever.

There was one thing I'd never have to worry about, though (thank goodness). As long as I stayed in the Shire, there was very, very little chance that I'd fall in love with some tragic hero and have him pine after me, while both of us were firmly convinced that we were despised by the other...

Trust me. As hot as Billy Boyd and Elijah Wood are in real life, once you've seen a real hobbit, you'll swear 'em off for life. Not that they're ugly or anything—no, I could tell that Faramir, at least, would be quite a handsome hobbit when he grew up—but... just no. Seriously... _ew. _I was _so _not into dating a guy who barely reached my chest and boasted of his abilities at blowing smoke rings and tucking away a tidy seven meals a day. It just was _not _going to happen.

I'll admit, that thought (the lack of Prince Charming, not the resolution to never date a hobbit) disappointed me a little. I mean—bright saints and angels!—I was in Middle-earth, and I was a living, breathing teenage girl, with hormones in full swing. Of _course _I wanted a boyfriend. And I'm not going to pretend that I didn't fantasize, in those first few days, that David Wenham was going to come up to me on a white horse and ride off with me into the proverbial sunset. But... I knew it wouldn't happen. I also knew that, on the off-chance Davy did stop by for a spot of tea, I wouldn't _let _it happen.

Come hell or high water (again with the damn clichés, I beg pardon), I would NOT become a Mary-Sue.

* * *

**_Note from the Author (that'd be me, Gwen):_** I'm going to give you fair warning now; the rest of this chapter is rather uneventful. Mostly, it chronicles my first few days in Brandy Hall and how I came to find my niche amongst the hobbits, and includes a bit of helpful description. _I_ think it's rather interesting, but read or not as you deem fit. Just thought I'd give you the option.

* * *

For as long as I can remember, I've been short. And yes, I realize that _everyone _is short at some stage or another of their physical development, but I was always shorter than everyone else. I stand at a rather embarrassing five foot one, and... well, I guess I'm average sized. I'm no Twiggy, but I've never particularly felt the need to go on a diet or work off those pesky extra five pounds. Compared to the hobbits (proportionally speaking, of course), I was still rail-thin. That rather did wonders for my self-esteem, now that I look back on it. I'm blessed to have clear skin of that 'rose petal' complexion—you know, pale with a bit of pink. The only problem is—well, I tend to freckle. And burn. I burn so easily that the mere _thought _of the sun makes me go scarlet. My hair is bright auburn, and falls in unruly waves and curls... it can never quite make up its mind which it prefers, which bothers me to no end. I have gray eyes, which I suppose will help me fit in here in Middle-earth. Am I the only one who's ever noticed that almost _everyone_ has gray eyes in the books? Seriously!

As far as features go, I wouldn't say I'm particularly blessed _or _cursed. I kind of have a generic face—I'm the sort of girl that always gets that, "You remind me of someone," or "Have we met? You look awfully familiar." It's sort of heart-shaped—my face, I mean—with an average-sized nose and average-sized eyes. The one thing I _do _like about my face is my lips, funny as that sounds. They're all pouty and pink and perfect (ah, the alliteration), the sort of lips that the heroines of romance novels always have. Not that I was the sort of girl to indulge in bodice-rippers or anything... well, maybe once or twice. But it was only out of curiosity!

Anyway—where was I?

Oh, yes. Height.

I was lucky enough (though I'd never thought of it that way before) to be just short enough that, even though I retained a somewhat decent height, I had absolutely no trouble in the spacious little hall. I could stand to my full extent, and still have to jump to touch the ceiling. Some of the doorways were a little low, but that was it.

This made finding me a room extremely easy. The one I received was a cozy little nook at the very end of the hall, near the 'back door.' It was, perhaps, fifteen feet in length and ten in width; rather small, but not uncomfortably so. The bed proved a bit of a problem, since I tend to stretch out when I sleep, but eventually one was found in storage that was exactly five feet and three inches. Perfect! It sat nestled in the far corner, with the head facing the door (good feng shui). Beside it stood a small table covered in a linen cloth and topped with a bowl and basin that was freshened every morning and afternoon by the servants employed by the hall. Other than those, there were only four main pieces of furniture; a long, low writing desk set in front of the window, a human-sized rocking chair that Master Merry found along with the bed, a wardrobe for all of my clothes, and a straight-backed chair that went along with the desk. The walls were some sort of plaster and had been painted a mellow, cheery yellow that contrasted nicely with all the dark woods. The floor was wood, as well, and very well kept; a braided, colorful rug covered all but the edges. A quilt in the same colors graced my bed, and, at Estella's bidding, I kept a spray of flowers in a small vase on my desk.

It was almost sickeningly quaint—but in the good way (if there _is _a good way...).

So, I was set as to living quarters. Estella had promised to teach me how to sew, as well, so that I could have a hand in making my own clothes. I have to admit, although I'd already realized that this was definitely for real, it still came as a bit of a shock that I couldn't just go out and buy new clothes. It would be fun to learn how to make them, though. I guess.

The only problem remained was...

_Dundundun!_

An occupation.

Master Merry and Estella had informed me that _everyone_ inside Brandy Hall had something to do. There were those hobbits who served, those who led, and those who pitched in with specific chores; some helped care for the animals and crops on the adjoining farm, others made sure that the road leading into Brandy Hall was serviceable, and still others cooked or cleaned or kept careful records of everything that went on. Even the children had chores to do. So what was I, who had so recently turned down the gracious offer of becoming court minstrel, to do?

Babysit.

Uh-huh.

On my first day, I looked around at the faces surrounding me. Glory and Merry and Pippin were there, as were Hamfast and Daisy, who were already bickering. Faramir was sighing, gazing at a pretty hobbit-lass of the Gamgee line whose name, I'd been earlier informed, was Goldilocks.

"So, what do you want to do?" I asked.

Immediately, the boys began to demand trips to the swimming hole or the wood or boisterous games—Daisy wanted to hear a story—Goldilocks wanted to gather flowers for a bouquet for Estella—and Faramir wanted to do anything that Goldilocks wanted to do.

And that's how, at the end of my first day as a functioning member of Brandy Hall, I ended up with blistered feet, thorn-stung hands, and a voice hoarse from talking.

Hobbits could be _very _persuasive.


	6. Twenty Questions

**A/N: Quick question... anyone have any ideas for trouble that Gwen absolutely _must _get into while still in the Shire? I have a few things up my sleeves, but I'd gladly take ideas, too!**

**Also, as you may have noticed, I changed my penname! Woot!**

**Elven Bunny: **why, thank you! And don't worry—all of the characters' coloring, etc. will be as faithful to canon as I can possibly keep it.

* * *

**Chapter Six: Twenty Questions**

I knew it would happen eventually.

That didn't mean, though, that I wasn't crossing fingers, toes, legs, arms, and eyes in an attempt to placate Fate and keep this eventuality out of my own personal annals.

"Where are _you_ from, Gwen?" Faramir asked.

_Oh, shit._

_Oh, shit shit shit shit bother shit shit shit._

_Shit._

_Think, Gwen, THINK! _

_Oh, no._

"Um... not here."

Goldilocks rolled her eyes as she continued to plait a bracelet out of the long grass in which we sat. Currently, we were very near to the river Brandywine—in fact, Glory and Merry were currently dipping their furry toes into its swift current. I took advantage of the distraction and shouted, "You two be careful! Don't fall in!"

Glory looked back at me and snorted. "I'm a Brandybuck. I don't _fall_."

"Yes, you do," countered Merry with a grin as he pushed his companion. I jumped up, heart pounding—I was not exactly lifeguard material, here, and hobbits don't have the best track record when it comes to moving water—but Glorfindel managed to steady himself and shove Merry right back. I ran over to them and picked them up by their collars—not as easy a task as one might think. Small they might be, but I'll remind you that, as growing hobbits, they tucked away a tidy seven meals a day with a fair few snacks on the side.

"Oi!" Merry squealed, struggling.

"Geroff!" agreed Glory, whacking at my hand, which had moved off his collar and to his ear, twisting gently. "OWWW!" he howled, and was soon echoed by his friend.

"Trust a Brandybuck and a Gamgee to be so stupid!" I growled, releasing their ears. They stumbled away from me, rubbing their ears and growling mutinously. "Honestly! I look away for _one second_..."

Oh, God. I was turning into my mother.

They must have noticed the shocked look of dawning realization on my face, because Hamfast frowned and asked me whether I was feeling well or not. "Never mind," I said, sitting down. "_You two_," I called as Glory and Merry began to edge back towards the Brandywine. "You go one step closer to that river and you'll go to bed without your supper tonight!"

Their horrified gasps and Goldilock's exclamation of, "No!" put a smile—all right, smirk—back on my face. The common punishment from my world had come as a nasty shock to the hobbits, and much to my surprise—apparently some of the lads were getting a bit more than 'a little' out of hand—their parents all agreed with me! With such a severe punishment looming over their heads, they had no choice but to obey me.

In fact, over the past few months I'd earned quite the reputation in the Shire; everyone from Stock to Michel Delving had heard of the 'daughter of Men' taken in by the Master of Buckland. The rumors that circulated amused me... those hobbits who had regular contact with Men recognized my short stature and claimed that I was the bastard daughter of Master Merry from his adventures during the War of the Ring (which, frankly, was ridiculously absurd and led to a lot of laughter in Brandy Hall). Some said I was the daughter of Tom Bombadil, which I guess stemmed from the fact that he had recommended me in the first place. I was named everything from a Barding to a Dorwinion to a daughter of Rohan.

The strangest part of it was, no one had _ever_ asked me where I was from—not even Master Merry or Estella! Even Master Pippin, that most curious of all hobbits, had remained silent on the subject. They conjectured, certainly. They drew conclusions based on my height and coloring (both of which, apparently, pointed to Rohan), and attempted to place my accent.

But no one ever asked.

It's my opinion that they thought prying into my history would be too invasive. They were, after all, hobbits, and we all know about hobbits and their sense of propriety!

So, over the course of two months and roughly a fortnight, I had grown to be a part of the social structure of Buckland. Thanks to my reputation as a fair but stern taskmaster (hey, I wasn't going to let the little buggers get away with _anything_ if it threatened such a cushy position), soon more and more hobbits of the Hall approached me about keeping an eye on their little ones while they tended their gardens, prepared feasts on festival days, or just took a load off. I, in return for their trust, really dug in and began to take my roll in Hall society seriously. Since I knew little about Middle-earth's history (and, let's be frank, Tolkien wasn't the easiest man to understand, so I was relatively uncertain about what I _did _know), I taught them snippets from earth science or math; they were well-educated on the whole, anyway, so I was able to teach them fun things. Though it was considered 'my responsibility' to look after the children of Messrs. Brandybuck, Took, and Gamgee, many of the other hobbit-parents paid me in coin or trinkets for my services.

I very much enjoyed my role as 'Governess to the Hall.' Faramir Silvertongue (I added the sobriquet, because the lad could talk his way out of—or into—damn near anything) coined that phrase, and it stuck. I taught them anything I could remember well enough without the assistance of my notes or a textbook, so it was rather patchy, but I think they enjoyed it. I showed them how erosion works, described the water cycle, instructed them in basic arithmetic (and even, for a few of the older ones, the simplest of algebra), and the food chain. They soaked up the information like sponges—though I'm not so sure how much Daisy and Hamfast, the youngest of my core group, understood.

I had become absurdly attached to the whole lot of them, and soon learned a little of what I'd missed by having so few friends as a child; I'll admit right now that I was damn jealous of them sometimes... but it seemed like they had a sixth sense for emotion, for no sooner would envy rear that ugly green head than they'd invite me to join in their games, or referee a shouting competition, or something like that.

Glory, Merry, and Pippin were dubbed 'the Terrible Trio'—for hobbits, those three certainly got into a lot of trouble! Thankfully, Glory had recently started taking lessons with his father, I guess to start learning how to lead Buckland, so most of the time, I only had to juggle Merry and Pip. They were good-hearted for all of their mischief, though, and usually seemed genuinely contrite when they realized the trouble they caused me.

Hamfast was, to no one's surprise, his father's son through and through. The boy didn't have a green thumb, he had a frigging green _arm_, I swear—he could've gotten a cactus to grow in Alaska, I swear. He was a bit on the loner side, at least as far as hobbits _can_ be loners.

Goldilocks was a sweet girl, and I was grateful for her help; she often kept an eye on Ham and Daisy while I was sorting out the Terrible Trio. She was bright for a hobbit, and very pretty, with a laugh that made everyone else smile in sympathy.

She and Faramir were pretty much a matched pair; of course, having read the books, I knew that they were destined to, one day, marry. Their little courtship was cute and... all right, occasionally revolting in it's sentiment. But really, they made quite the couple.

Faramir himself was probably (and God forbid I take preferences) my favorite, other than Daisy. He was a charming young rogue with polished manners, a biting wit, and a keen mind. He was, ironically enough, also the most intellectual of the core group; more than once I'd caught him scribbling away at some story or poem when he was supposed to be doing his sums, but because they were _so damned good_ I never punished him.

Daisy still clung to me as much as ever, so much so that I sometimes called her 'my shadow.' While the others were playing or studying their history texts (thank goodness, Master Merry supplied that knowledge for them), I told her stories—Peter Pan was her favorite, though, as I recall, she was rather partial to the tales of the Brothers Grimm, as well.

So there (plus a few occasional extras) are my kids, as I call them. Kids, of course, is one of those words that _no one_ in Buckland had ever heard before... it's ridiculously fun to use some common American phrase and watch the hobbits try to puzzle it out on their own. It took them _days _to figure out 'mad as a hatter,' and then it wasn't even really right... I gave them an A for effort though—Fatty Bolger was really quite clever to turn it so that 'hatter' referred to Gandalf (whose hat, apparently, was famous in its own right here).

"Gwen?"

I jerked my head up to see Goldilocks watching me with those keen brown eyes of hers, her petite mouth twisted into a speculative grimace that looked absurd on her pretty face. I smiled abashedly at her and flicked a strand of auburn hair out of my eyes. "Yes, Goldie?"

"You never really answered Faramir's question."

Oh, botheration.

"Which question?" I asked just as sweetly, hiding behind a façade of ignorance in a futile effort to buy myself some more time. Maybe if I talked in circles for a while, they'd give up and leave me alone...

"Where are you from?"

Now Faramir was watching me curiously, as well, not needing to look at his nimble, practiced fingers as they wove a daisy chain for his lady-love.

I looked from brown eyes to brown eyes and could only blush.

A sudden thought came to me, and I channeled Minerva McGonagall, staring sternly at them. "That," I said succinctly, "is really none of your business."

"Oh, please, Gwen?" Goldilocks asked, pouting.

"_No_, Goldie."

"I have an idea."

Let me just say right now, that in the Shire, Faramir Took practically has the phrase 'I have an idea' copyrighted. It's his trademark—sort of like Trump's whole 'You're fired!' thing. Goldie and I both turned to look at him.

"Let's play twenty questions!"

I groaned. I had introduced the game of twenty questions to the hobbits one day as a way of diffusing a potentially volatile situation; Hamfast kept lording it over Glory that he knew something Glory didn't, and young Master Brandybuck was getting angry, so I agreed to teach them twenty questions. The deal was, if Glory guessed it, Hamfast would have to stop acting like a prat. If not, then he could lord away. They both concurred, and it had since taken the Hall by storm.

"Very well," I said, knowing that there was _no way _they could guess it.

"Is it far away?"

"Yes."

"Have one of our fathers—or Master Merry—ever been there?"

"No."

"Did you walk here?"

"No."

"Did you sail here?"

"No."

"Did you ride a horse here?"

"No."

They looked at each other, clearly puzzled. How _else_ could I have gotten to the Shire?

"Is it near the sea?"

"No."

"Is it in the mountains?"

Well... I _had _lived near the Catskills. Might as well give them a _little _encouragement. "Yes."

Faramir frowned perplexedly at Goldie. "Can you think of any more questions?" he whispered.

"No. Should we ask about her family, instead?"

Faramir grinned at her and then turned back to me. "Are you an orphan?"

"No."

They both looked surprised; I'd never mentioned my family yet, for obvious reasons. "Do you have any brothers?"

"No."

"Do you have any sisters?"

"Yes."

"More than one?"

"No." It was true... I had a half-sister, Isabelle, who was a good eleven years younger than me.

"Was your family poor?"

"Not really."

"Um..." Goldie looked at Faramir, and then grinned. "Have you ever courted a fellow before?"

"No."

They both looked distinctly disappointed at his revelation. "Maybe we should go back to _where _she's from," Faramir whispered, and Goldie nodded her agreement. "Was it to the north of the Shire?"

"No."

"Was it to the west?"

"No."

"The east?"

"No."

"The south, then."

"No."

"It isn't to the north, south, east, or west of the Shire?" Faramir asked again, looking confused.

"Nope." Ha ha! Score one for the Governess of the Hall!

"You're sure?" Goldie asked, breathless.

"Yep. One question left." I smirked at them.

I should've known better. I _was_, after all, dealing with Faramir Took here. A speculative gleam came into the sixteen-year-old's eyes. That thought surprised me... he was only a year younger than I was, yet he seemed so much younger. It wasn't just the difference in height... hobbits matured slower, mentally and emotionally, than humans. After all, they didn't come of age until thirty-three, did they? So Faramir was what, a ten year old to them, maybe? _That _was startling...

"All right—last question," he said slowly, drawing the words out, his brown eyes fixed on mine. "Are you from Middle-earth?"

_BOTHERATION!_


	7. Botheration!

**A/N: **This one's rather short, forgive me...hope you enjoy, and thank you all for reviewing! It really makes my day!

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Botheration!**

"All right, last question," he said slowly, drawing the words out, his brown eyes fixed on mine. "Are you from Middle-earth?"

_BOTHERATION!_

Looking back on it, I should have realized—if only from the boy's tone and the hard, irritated look in his eyes—that he only asked the question out of sheer frustration with my lack of useful answers. He had one question left, so he asked it out of aggravation. It was something I would've done.

And yet, at the time, I completely missed the annoyed sarcasm in his voice. All I could think was _botheration_ with a few tangents into obscenity for flavor. I stared—of _course_ I stared. I could no longer speak—my jaw had been permanently unhinged. A rather unnerving combination of crickets and a laugh track (you know, like on movies) kept playing in my head like someone had hit the 'repeat' button... oh, yeah, it was that bad.

"Look!" Goldilocks said suddenly, making me jump and swing around in the direction she pointed, heart hammering. I half expected hobbits bearing pitchforks and torches, telling me that I had to amscray, or they'd... I dunno... hand me over to the Uruk-Hai or something.

I almost swore at her for scaring me like that; crossing towards us was none other than Rosie Gamgee, come to visit. "Mrs. Gamgee!" I said delightedly, turning away from Faramir.

His face, like mine, was a study in slack-jawed astonishment, the brown eyes wide, his mouth forming a little 'o'. I could almost see the wheels clicking underneath that curly mop of his, and internally cursed my inability to lie convincingly. He was _certain _to figure it out now!

"Good day, Gwen!" Rosie said to me, smiling brightly.

"What brings you the whole way to Buckland? Is Master Gamgee with you? And the other children?"

The Gamgees had quite a swarm of littles overrunning their hobbit-hole. The eldest, Elanor, had recently gone to Gondor to be a companion to Lady Arwen; the youngest, Ruby, was only two years old. Rosie's midriff was slightly swollen with another child, and if memory serves, there was at least one more on the way after this one, or so I'd gleaned from the books.

"Only Frodo," she said. Frodo was their second-eldest. "Actually, I've come to find you!"

"Me!"

She nodded. "Goldie, Faramir, you will watch the younger ones, won't you?"

"Yes, Mother," and "Yes, Auntie Rosie," echoed from them as Rosie put her hand on my arm—obviously linking arms was out of the question, even between a hobbit and a _short _human—and guided me a bit away from the children.

"I'm afraid I have a rather large favor to ask you, Gwen," she began delicately when we were a suitable distance away. I looked over, curious. "My husband's birthday is coming up, and the dear fellow has gone quite mad. The party won't be quite up to old Bilbo's standard, but it will be the nearest that the Shire has seen in seventeen years!"

Here I gave the necessary exclamation—an 'oh, my!' or a 'dear!' or something like that, I don't really remember.

"I was rather hoping that you would come with us back to Hobbiton and stay for a bit—help keep the children in line, and all that. Of course, Merry, Estella, Pippin, and Diamond—along with their assorted littles—will be coming as well. It's an awful lot to do, I know, but it won't be all work for you! We have a few hobbit-lasses in Hobbiton who care for the children as well, and they've had little work lately, what with you having to deal with the terrible three," I smiled at the fact that we had the same name—or very close to the same name—for Glory, Merry, and Pip, "so you can come along as a guest! What say you, dear? I know the children would love you to come!"

"We would, we would!"

Rosie and I both looked down to see that Daisy had followed us.

The little hobbit looked up at me with big eyes. "You will come, won't you, Gwennie?"

I groaned. "She's doing the sad puppy face," I wailed to Rosie, who laughed merrily.

"I'll take that as a yes, then."

Daisy was still pouting appealingly at me. I sighed and grimaced before looking up at her mother.

"I think you'd better."

* * *

All I can say is, whoever designed the sets for Hobbiton in the movies must have been channeling Middle-earth or something. It wasn't exactly the same, of course, but it was damn close! The style—clean-cut, cheery old English village—was right on. The thatched roofs of houses and other buildings gleamed in the sunlight, set like drops of gold and rough silver in the brilliant green fields surrounding it. The road was in relatively good shape; the ride there (I had ridden a horse borrowed from Bree, since I'd take up an inordinate amount of room in a hobbit's wagon) was sunny and bright, and didn't take as long as I'd thought; we left after a hearty breakfast, and even allowing for stops in the name of 'calls of nature' or meals, we arrived just in time for supper.

I swear, these hobbits have ridiculously good senses of timing, especially when it comes to meals. You could set a clock by young Merry's stomach!

As promised, there were two hobbits—Dahlia and Lily—waiting for 'the Governess of the Hall' when we reached the Gamgee's hole. It was quite roomy, and soon the two hobbit-lasses—both of them were only a few years shy of their thirty-third—were soon helping me unpack. They seemed slightly in awe of me, which tickled me to no end. After all, I was a good ten years younger than Dahlia, and the difference between Lily's age and my own was even greater.

I didn't bring too much with me—several work dresses, a few nice ones for the festivities, and three pairs of trousers and tunics. Add in my trusty old Birkenstocks, a pair of boots and another of slippers (both purchased in Bree), all of the jewelry given to me in lieu of payment by the mothers of Brandy Hall, and several books that I had borrowed from Master Merry in order to brush up on my Middle-earth history, and it just barely filled a medium-sized trunk. Goldilocks had brought three the same size!

In any event, our unpacking was soon done, and we were gossiping like old friends. I'll say this much about hobbits—it's quite easy to relax in their company. Dahlia was quiet, cheerful, and industrious; Lily was loquacious and a bit on the silly side, but she had quick hands and a quicker eye.

"So, you're the Governess of the Hall?" was the first thing she said to me.

"Taller than I'd expected," Dahlia said with a modest smile.

I laughed. "I get that a lot, actually."

With that, our friendship was cemented.

As it turns out, Lily and Dahlia barely had any contact with the hobbit-children, either. With so many people around (the population of Hobbiton was far greater than that of Buckland), there wasn't too much trouble they could get into, so they were generally given free reign. I thought that it was a mark of my success as governess that Daisy, Goldilocks, and Faramir seemed to enjoy spending time with me even when they didn't have to, though most often they were off with their friends.

In any event, the three of us soon found ourselves with a great deal of free time—most of which was spent either helping prepare everything for the party, or deciding what to wear and how to do our hair. Well, mostly that last bit was Lily and Dahl, while I listened and offered advice.

Three days passed quickly in Hobbiton; most of the time was spent either with the children or with my newfound friends, though I did find some time to study the books that Master Merry had lent me.

The evening of the party (well, the evening of the _beginning _of the party, since one of this magnitude would most likely last for two days at the least), after I had dressed and prepared, the house was in an uproar. In an attempt to find peace for a few moments before the festivities began, I took a book about the history of Dale and a small lantern and slipped out of the house, nestling into a little corner of Rosie's garden with the book open on my lap and a cool breeze brushing my warm cheeks. I wasn't more than halfway through a rousing account of Bard's tale when I heard hoof beats pounding up the road.

"Ho! The hole!" a voice called through the darkness; even though I couldn't see the rider's face, I could hear the smile in his voice. Frodo and young Merry came out to meet the rider.

"Can we help you, sir?" Frodo asked politely.

"Aye, you certainly can! I've ridden hard for a week to get here—I haven't missed the party, have I?"

"No, it's to begin soon!"

"Good! Here, lad, you take my horse. Is the little master at home?"

"I'll fetch him. What name should I give?" Merry asked as Frodo led the man's horse down to the stables, alongside my own stout mare.

I closed the book, peering through the rosebush behind which I'd hidden. I could see Merry's silhouette clearly, and before him a very, very tall man. Well, I suppose he only looked that tall because he was only the third or so actual _Man_ that I'd seen since I woke up in the Old Forest. He wore a dark cloak and carried a lumpy bundle; the only thing I knew about him was that he had blond hair, because the light from inside the hole caught and flared like gold in the curls around his face.

"Tell him Bowen is here, on behalf of Lord Elessar Telcontar, King of Gondor, to wish him a very happy birthday!"

"I'll do so."

As Merry scampered back inside, bellowing for his father, Bowen of Gondor turned away from the warm hole to glance up into the night sky, blossoming with stars. The light fell across his face, and as the breath caught in my throat, the only thing I could think was...

_Botheration._

_This one's gonna be hard!_


	8. Of Burns and Bothersome Hobbits

**Chapter Eight: Of Burns and Bothersome Hobbits**

_Now what_, you may be asking yourselves, _is she on about NOW?_

Let me tell you—if you had seen the delicious piece of manflesh standing in front of the hobbit-hole door only days after privately celebrating two-and-a-half successful months of struggling against Mary-Sue-ishness, _you _would've cursed, too.

The fact that a gorgeous hunk of Gondorian had oh-so-conveniently showed up at my doorstep—well, Sam's doorstep—just _reeked_ of 'Sue-ishness. If I had been reading my own story, at this point I would've begun to severely question whether or not to continue. Really, what are the odds of an attractive male like that showing up _completely_ out of the blue, when I'd gone months without speaking to someone at eye level?

_Calm down, Gwen_, I counseled myself. _Just because he's got a face a sculptor would _kill _to immortalize in marble doesn't mean that the whole of Middle-earth is conspiring to turn you into a Sue. I mean, after all, it's not like he's _famous_ or something. Yeah, if he was Eldarion or Legolas or something like that, I'd have to run for the hills. But I'm _positive _I never read the name Bowen in any of the books. Bowen. Bowen. Nope, not ringing any—_

My slightly hysterical contemplations were interrupted as a ringing laugh echoed up the lane. I shifted forward so that I was kneeling, my fingertips digging into the fresh earth at my knees and my head lifted just far enough that I could see. Lily and Dahlia were coming up the lane, skipping and dancing, all psyched for the party. I lowered myself back down again and extinguished the lantern—but, apparently, not in time.

"Gwen Sherbourn!" came Lily's laughing voice. "What on earth are you doing sitting in the dirt, all dressed up in your best gown? Get up, you goose!"

Cheeks burning—Eru bless the new moon!—I stumbled to my feet, book in one hand and cooling lantern in the other.

"Silly child!" Dahlia said with an indulgent smile, "reading at such an hour? What could have been more interesting than finding a partner for the couples' dances?"

Ah, the challenges of having friends. On one hand, you weren't always alone. On the other, you quite often wanted to kill them.

"The Tale of Bard," I said, using that 'governess' tone of voice that I employ when the Terrible Trio get into trouble. "For your information, Miss Dahlia."

"Oh, it's _Miss _Dahlia, is it?" the hobbit laughed.

"I think she's a bit miffed, Dahl," Lily said with a bright smile as I clambered out of the rose bushes to join them on the path. I didn't look directly at him, but I could tell from the shape of his silhouette that Bowen of Gondor had turned to hear our conversation. _Probably_, I thought with equal parts despondency and hope, _he's come to the conclusion that I'm either the bastard child of a hobbit and a Man, or I've had one too many Ent-draughts. _"Feeling left out, sweetling?"

"Why would she feel left out?" Dahlia asked, looking suddenly confused.

Lily dropped her voice, but not _nearly_ low enough for my liking. Really, I could've garroted them both quite happily right then and there. "Well, she hasn't got a partner for the dances, has she? Certainly, she makes even Masters Merry and Pippin look like children!"

I moaned and whirled away, running up the path and towards the house. I stopped suddenly as the lantern in my hand hit something—Bowen of Gondor yelped, and I whirled, gasping. "Sorry!" I said. "Shit, sorry—oh my gosh, am I ever sorry."

Now, repeat that last line in your mind, only make your mental voice get steadily softer and slower as you go—you know, the standard fade-to-a-murmur thing? Dammit, I even _talked _like a Mary-Sue. Still I maintain my excuse—I _was _dealing with a bona fide _god_ here. One look from those warm, hazel eyes would have reduced anyone to Mary-Sue levels of ickiness.

"It's—ah!—it's all right, miss, I assure you," Bowen said, though I could tell from the way he involuntarily pinched his brows together that it wasn't. I lay one finger softly against the lantern, and drew it back with a hiss—not only was it full of sharp corners, but it was also _hot_. Like, scalding.

"Did I—I mean, did it burn you?" I asked, feeling absolutely terrible.

No, _no, NO! Don't feel bad for him! Laugh and be all cold-hearted—I swear, Gwen Sherbourn, you even _dare _go all Florence Nightingale on him and I'll—_

"You should take him in and put some salve on that, Gwen," Dahlia said wisely, Lily nodding her agreement.

"I really don't know if I should," I blurted just as Bowen stammered, "I'm—ah—waiting for Master Gamgee here, don't know if I should leave." We glanced at each other and blushed.

_Well_, I comforted myself, _at least I'm not the only one completely mortified. At least I'm not a big, bad warrior who can't even handle a little burn!_

"Nonsense! We'll let Mister Sam know where you've gotten to. Go on, now, Gwen," Lily said, shooing us inside.

"Er—follow me, then, I guess," I said in a very small voice, feeling so awkward that I couldn't even _look_ at him. "And watch—"

_THUD._

"OW!"

"—your head," I ended lamely, half-turned towards him with one finger lifted admonishingly.

"Mmmf," he grunted, rubbing his head and then grinning at me. "Do not fret so, Miss. I've often been told that I'm the clumsiest man to ever serve his Majesty."

Meh. That didn't make me feel a whole hell of a lot better as I led him down through the bustling corridors and into a small corner parlor that was largely abandoned. I motioned to the settee—the only piece of furniture that could comfortably hold a man who stood at a good six-foot-four—and put my book and lantern down a safe distance away from him. "Wait here, I'll go get the salve."

"As you wish," I heard him respond as I whipped out of the parlor, narrowly avoiding trampling over a pair of hobbits carrying a massive basket laden with sweet baked goods out to the main tent. "Rosie!" I called, spotting her down the hall. "Where's the burn salve?"

"Burn salve?" she repeated, then contemplated. "I'm afraid it's all gone—I've been meaning to replace it, what with the lads returning home, but haven't gotten around to it yet. I'm sorry. Is it serious?"

I thought back to the reddened skin I'd glimpsed on Bowen's abused hand. "Not too bad, but probably painful."

"Try some butter. It will help cool the skin," she advised. No sooner had the word 'butter' escaped her lips than I sprinted off again towards the kitchens.

One thing I had learned early on was to avoid kitchens whenever hobbits were having a get-together of any kind. Not only was there no room to move, but the women tending the stoves tended to get an early start on their drinking while slaving away in the stifling room; this resulted in many a toppled dish, shattered plate, spilled mug, and a great deal of merry singing.

Drunken hobbits, as a rule, are immensely amusing.

Ignoring the young hobbit-womens' requests that I join them for a mug of sweet mead, I grabbed a small, ceramic pot of butter and slipped out as quickly as possible, running right back into the parlor where I'd left Bowen.

_On second thought... maybe running wasn't the best idea._

I was distinctly aware of my mussed hair and flushed cheeks as I came to an abrupt stop in the doorway. Bowen looked up, an expression of surprise on his face; I gasped a moment, trying to catch my breath from my sprint.

"Sorry," I breathed. "No salve left, but I have some butter."

"Butter?" he said, raising one eyebrow eloquently.

I blushed even brighter. "Mrs. Gamgee said it... would help... with the pain?" I ended what had begun as a mere reply on a questioning note, and his skeptical expression slid easily into a smile. "I'm sorry, I'm really no good at this whole healing thing... I wish I had an aspirin to give you or something—"

"Aspirin?"

"Ah—never mind." My cheeks were now officially on fire. Mentally, I slapped myself upside the head. "Here, let me see your hand," I said, sitting down on the settee next to him and avoiding his gaze. He held it out dutifully, and I drew my breath in with a hiss. "Sorry," I said softly.

"I wish you would stop that."

"Sorry, am I hurting you? I really didn't mean to—I'm sorry—"

He laughed, and I _swear_, somewhere there were angels singing. Honestly, this guy was _that_ hot. And he had a voice like no one's business... not too deep or loud, neither smooth nor gravelly, but just—perfect.

"I meant," he said as I dared to glance furtively up at his face through my eyelashes, "that I wish you would stop apologizing. It is none of your fault; I should have moved out of the way more quickly, and there is nothing that you could have done about the lack of burn salve. Certainly you were not _intending _to have to play nurse on such a festive evening."

"Sor—I'll stop now," I said, wishing that I could just sink through the floor.

And he was _still _smiling at me. Blessed saints and angels, this was one hell of a guy.

_I will NOT become a Mary-Sue. I will NOT become a Mary-Sue._

_Oh, bug off,_ another mental voice retorted, _it's not like he's frigging Legolas or something. A single romance with a character—er, _man_—that no one's ever heard of before is _not _going to turn you into a Mary-Sue._

_But—but—_

_Shut up. _

_But—_

_All right, we'll make a deal; if you happen to run into an absolutely gorgeous, perfect guy whose name is actually _mentioned _in the books, then you're allowed to drive him away. Until then—suck up and deal._

Oh, yes, and it would be _ever _so hard to deal with a charming, attractive, and sweet Gondorian. Mm-hm.

"So," I said once my cheeks had cooled somewhat, "you work with Aragorn?"

He raised his eyebrows.

"Did I say something wrong? Sor—I mean—meh. Did I say something wrong?" I repeated.

"No, not at all," he said quickly. "I am simply... unaccustomed to hearing my lord spoken of so casually."

"Oh. Lord Elessar, I mean. You work with him?"

"Yes, I do," he said. "I am, for all my inelegance on my own two feet, quite talented on horseback—the gift of my mother, a woman of Rohan, or so I believe." Ah. That explained the coloring. Gondorians usually leaned more toward brunette than blond. "I am one of his lordship's royal messengers." He patted the package that sat beside him on the settee. "I bear a gift for Master Gamgee, on my lord's behalf."

I nodded, concentrating on attempting to soothe the burn; the skin looked slightly puckered and reddish, but the tense muscle between Bowen's eyebrows had relaxed. Apparently the butter was doing some good, after all. "We should probably—oh, bother!" I said, slapping my forehead with one buttery hand. "Ick," I said as Bowen laughed at me. Shooting him a glare, I wiped the slippery substance off my forehead with the back of the other hand. "I forgot all about bandages," I continued with a carefully cultivated air of dignity, which I'm afraid made me seem less like a cool-and-in-command professional and more like an insulted kitten. "We should bind that up."

"Alas, I'm not accustomed to carrying bandages with me, though with my grace, I probably should," Bowen said with an apologetic smile.

I thought for a moment, then grinned. "Aha! As they say, necessity _is_ the mother of invention."

"Who says—Miss!" he said, practically squeaking, and whirled around so that his back was to me. I hesitated, looking confused.

"What?"

"I can—" he dropped his voice. "I can see your petticoats."

"Well, since I _did _just lift my skirt, and you're burned, not blind, I would've assumed that," I said sardonically.

"But—Miss, this is not proper, I don't even know your _name_, and—"

It was actually quite cute how distressed he was becoming. I smiled as I tore a long strip of fabric off the bottom of my petticoat. "My name's Gwenith Sherbourn. You can call me Gwen." I dropped my skirt—I hadn't lifted it _that_ high, it wasn't like you could see more than my ankle or anything—and laughed. "You can turn around now, Bowen."

He did so tentatively, as though afraid of what he might encounter. Finding my clothes fully in place, he relaxed and returned his hand to my care, letting it fall, palm-down, on my thigh. This time it was _his_ turn to blush like a maniac. "Forgive me, Miss Sherbourn, I meant no harm—"

I snorted, and he looked at me in amazement, his cheeks still scarlet. "Stop apologizing," I said, mimicking his voice. "And I _told_ you, call me Gwen. Everyone does. Anyway, it's no big deal," I said, lifting his hand, applying a little more butter, and tying the bandages securely.

What was I saying? Of _course _it was a big deal! The single most beautiful man I'd ever seen _in my life_ had just put his hand on my leg! But I wasn't about to let _him_ see how excited I was, especially after I'd decided that maybe I wouldn't have to drive him off after all.

"Miss—Gwen, I confess that I am having some difficulty placing your accent, and as much in deciphering the reasons behind your presence here," he said after a few more moments.

"I'm the governess at Brandy Hall—I look after the children," I said carefully, securing the last knot before releasing his hand reluctantly. "I live there."

"And before?"

"She won't tell," came a slightly petulant voice from the doorway. I looked up to see Faramir Took standing there, arms crossed over his chest. "She'll _never_ tell us anything about her past."

Uh-oh. Pissed hobbit alert. Even worse, pissed _Took_ alert.

"Will she not?" Bowen asked, seeming surprised.

"My business is mine. Faramir—"

"No, you're not getting away from me this time, Gwen!" the boy said. I raised my eyebrows, thunderstruck. Who knew that such a small being could have such a forceful personality? "Answer my question, if you please. Where did you live before coming to Buckland?"

My mouth was as dry as the Sahara. I swallowed thickly, eyes darting between the peeved hobbit and the curious messenger. Damn, damn, DAMN! Damn that bothersome little Took! He just _had_ to bring it up now, of all times—

Obviously, I thought, unfortunate timing was a trademark of the Took bloodline.

"Before I came to Buckland," I said slowly, "I lived in... the house of Master Bombadil."

Well, technically, I _had_—there was no way they could know it was just for one night!

"Oh."

"Yes, _oh_, Mr. Busybody," I said tetchily. "Now, you run along. The party's beginning."

He meekly bowed out of the room, and I turned my attention nervously to the man sitting beside me.

"Who is this Master Bombadil?" he asked curiously. "I've never heard the name before."

I virtually sagged with relief—I had _really_ dodged that bullet... for now.

"He and his lady live in the Old Forest," I said, then quickly changed the subject. "Come on, let's go! You have a birthday present to deliver, if I remember right."

"Verily, I do," he agreed, standing to follow me out of the hobbit hole. We'd only made it a few steps into the pleasant evening air when he spoke again. "Miss Sherbourn—Gwen—I was wondering..."

"Yes?" I prompted, when no question seemed forthcoming.

"Would you like to dance?"

Maybe I wasn't so unlucky, after all.


	9. Seeing Stars

**A/N: **Surprise! I know I said I discontinued this story... but I was bored and inspired and just couldn't bear _not_ to finish, so here's the newest chapter! I know it's rather short and fluffy (my apologies) but I'm setting to work on Chapter Ten right now, and it should be quite a bit longer—and more interesting. The action'll really start then. So, tell me what you all think! And thank you to those of you who stuck by this story when even I wanted to abandon it!

**Blayney: **-_gags_- Be more sappy, Indy, won't you?

**Indy: **You know, for a muse, you're awfully snarky.

**Blayney: **_-grinning- _And that's why you love me.

**Indy: **Bah.

* * *

**Chapter Nine: Seeing Stars**

"Ah! Gwen! Have some mead!"

Grinning, I shook my head at the hobbit. "I'm sorry, Master Fatty. Duty calls, you know," I said, motioning to the bewildered Gondorian soldier following in my footsteps. The chubby little fellow just nodded, and marched right up to Bowen.

"Fatty Bolger!" he announced, sticking his hand almost straight up in the air so that it would be easier for Bowen (who was by no means lacking in height) to reach.

"Er—Bowen son of Thalion, at your service, Master Bolger."

"Fatty, Fatty!" the inebriated hobbit insisted, before pushing the tankard of sweet mead into Bowen's hands. "Drink up, me lad! 'Tis a great day in the Shire!"

"Thank you, Fatty," I answered for Bowen, who had turned to look at me, completely at a loss of what to do. "Do you know where Sam is?"

"Eh, talking with guests and whatnot, over at the pavilion," he replied with an absent wave of his hand in that general direction. "How many times this evening have I told him, 'Join the party, Sam, old man! It's your birthday! Stop playing the politician and have a little fun!' But, _nooo_, he just..."

"Thanks, Fatty," I said with a fleeting smile before grabbing hold of Bowen's upper arm and pulling him after me, through the thronging crowds of hobbits. "Sorry about that," I whispered, standing on my tiptoes so that my low voice could reach his ear; the music was loud, as were the hobbits, who had already started in on the various alcohol beverages—I saw mead, ale, and beer, and wouldn't be surprised if there was some whiskey around here somewhere. "Fatty's a bit of a talker when he gets smashed."

"Verily," Bowen said, raising one eyebrow as he looked around at waist height, surveying the faces of the hobbits. A smile passed over his face, and I swear, I nearly fainted. "They are a merry bunch, this halflings—my Lord told me that I would receive a warm welcome amongst them, but this, I had not expected!"

"You should try the mead," I said, grinning up at him. "Usually it's diluted with fruit juices or water, but it's left untouched at parties. Packs quite a punch, if you know what I mean," I said. He looked surprised, but lifted the tankard to his lips anyway as I led him around a group of dancing hobbits and towards the pavilion, where I could, indeed, just see Master Sam's golden head amongst the others.

"Ah, there you are, children! I thought you'd gotten lost!" the dear fellow said as Bowen and I climbed the steps of the pavilion. The roof was high enough that I had no trouble, but Bowen had to duck, and afterward, I noticed with a grin, kept a close eye on the swinging lantern in the center of the pyramidal ceiling.

"With _my _sense of direction?" I joked, fluttering my eyelashes innocently. Several of the hobbits gathered around Sam laughed; if my way with kids was well-known, my lack of navigational skills was a household byword. "I've come to deliver the deliverer of your gift, and to bid you a happy birthday, Master Sam!"

I ducked down and planted a kiss on each of the hobbit's cheeks. He laughed and patted my hand. "Thank you, dear girl, on both accounts!" he turned to Bowen, who was still eyeing the lantern warily. "So, you're the lad that old Strider sent, then? Welcome, my boy! Welcome to the Shire! Gwen, child, make sure that Sir Soldier gets everything his heart desires tonight! I'll not have it said that Samwise Gamgee slacks in his hospitality!"

"I thank you," Bowen said, bowing low and courteously, "but that is really not necessary—"

"But it is!" Sam said. "Now, I'm the birthday boy, so you must heed my word!" he said with mock severity, waggling one finger at Bowen who seemed to be struggling against laughter.

"Once again, sir, I thank you. I am Bowen son of Thalion, come to deliver your birthday gift from King Elessar. I wish you a happy day and a long life, sir!"

Sam beamed up at him and patted his arm, taking the parcel from him. He unwrapped it with all the delight of a child; out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bowen smiling down indulgently at the chubby little man. I could see that he, too, now shared my almost _parental_ affection to these hobbits.

"Look, Gwen! How lovely! Embroidered by my Lady's own hand, or I'll be damned!" Sam said, displaying a smart new surcoat.

Bowen's compliments and my own were lost amidst the cries of, "How lovely!" and "Try it on!" Smiling at each other, the Gondorian and I left the pavilion to join the party.

"You've made the old dear's day," I said with a smile. "And for that, I'll do exactly what he told me." Bowen looked at me curiously, and I gave an overly-dramatic bow. "Anything you wish, Sir Bowen, I wish to give you!"

"Anything?"

"I'm at your service, sir," I said, still playing it up.

"I'll hold you to your word, m'lady," he said, his own tone matching mine. "But first—I'm starved!"

I laughed. "There's a reason why I've always referred to men your age as stomachs with legs."

"And other appendages!" he protested.

I clapped my hands over my mouth, but even this couldn't stop the explosive laughter that his comment inspired. He blushed, seeming to realize just how his comment had been taken. "I meant, _hands_," he said, holding them up and wiggling his fingers. "You are the most inappropriate girl I have ever met, Gwen Sherbourn!"

"And you are the most prudish boy that I've ever met, Bowen son of Thalion!" I retorted, smirking cheekily at him. "Loosen up—it's a party, and we're young! We're _supposed _to be bawdy!"

"Bawdy, eh?" he said with a smirk that made me suddenly think that maybe I'd said something wrong. "You're speaking to a soldier of Gondor, madam. If you want bawdy, I can _do_ bawdy."

I snorted, and he looked surprised and comically hurt. "Oh, I'm sorry, Bowen—but you nearly had a stroke when I showed a bit of ankle in there."

"Well, I was not expecting it," he said with great dignity.

"Next time I'll be sure to announce the fact that I'm about to lift my petticoats for you, then," I said, rolling my eyes.

He raised one eyebrow at me, and it was my turn to blush at my choice of words. I really wasn't this bold, normally... I guess I'd sampled a little more mead than was good for me. He laughed at the quietly puzzled look on my face and grasped my hand. "Come, Gwen. Let me feed _all _of my appendages," again that smirking, cocked-eyebrow, suggestive expression, "and then you will dance with me."

"I will?"

"You will."

Grinning like an idiot, I led Bowen son of Thalion towards the dining tent, a matching smile on his handsome face.

* * *

It was around four in the morning that we finally collapsed, exhausted, into the long, sweet grass on the far side of the hill from the party. We were both sweating and exhausted from long hours spent dancing and frolicking and all around acting like children, and the cool feeling of the earth beneath my back was very welcome. The stars above were so brilliant that my breath caught in my throat in awe. 

Bowen, hearing me, looked over, expectant.

"It's... the sky," I whispered. "It's so _huge_... there're so many stars. Where I'm from, you can't see half this many."

"Aye, well, the Old Forest is home to rather large trees. They must block out much of the view," he said, thinking that he understood.

I felt a sudden and wholly unexpected pang of homesickness. My throat tightened. "Yeah," I choked out. "The trees block the view." I scanned the firmament desperately, looking for any constellation that was in the least bit familiar, but I saw none. No Pegasus or Orion or Cassiopeia—no Big Dipper or North Star or Cygnus. I hadn't truly expected them to be the same... but I wished they would be.

Bowen's fingers tightened slightly around mine. "Gwen?"

"It's—I'm all right," I said, smiling at him and swallowing back those inexplicable tears. How badly I wanted to tell him the truth! I almost did, in that moment—I took a deep breath, preparing to tell him, and to accept the fact that he would never want to speak to a lunatic or a liar (whatever he decided I was, in the end).

But no sooner had I opened my mouth, than he rolled onto his side, leaning on one elbow, and looked down at me with an expression that made me just—stop. He tucked an errant strand of my auburn hair behind one ear, and stroked my cheek with his callused thumb. "Gwen Sherbourn," he said, "I wish you could see the stars in Gondor. From the top of the highest tower in Minas Tirith, one can see for miles, and the sky seems to extend forever. It is so large that here, in this place, this sky seems small to me. I hope," he breathed, his eyes concerned for some reason that I couldn't quite fathom, "that one day you will come and see it."

I could have died happily right then and there—but _noooo_, Bowen just _had_ to keep going! Smiling at me, he dipped his head and placed a soft, chaste kiss on my lips. I closed my eyes and just lay there for a little bit after he had, once again, lifted his head.

"Gwen?" His voice was uncertain. "I—I'm sorry—I should have asked—"

I opened my eyes and caught at his hand just as he made to leave. "Don't go. Please?"

"You—you are not vexed with me? Any maid of Gondor would have slapped me for my impudence."

"I'm no 'maid of Gondor,' as I think we've already established," I said. Relief passed over his face, and he lay back down beside me, winding his arms around my waist. With a contented sigh, I brushed my lips against his. When I pulled away, he made a sound of dissent in his throat and ducked forward, catching my lips in a bolder kiss.

_Eru bless the Gaming Piece!_


	10. Refer to Rule Number One

**A/N: **woot! Reviews! I love 'em!

* * *

**Chapter Ten: Refer To Rule Number One**

I'm sure you're all _dying _to know what happened between Bowen and me, so I'll get that out of the way before I continue with the story. I'm afraid if I don't get over the sappiness quickly, Blayney might skin me alive. The fluffy scenes make him uncomfortable, poor, unloved ickle wizardkins! Eh... all right, Blayney, there's really no need to be ostentatiously sharpening your daggers like that... I'm getting on with it...

_Anyway._

Bowen, being one of King Elessar's most trusted (and talented) messengers, obviously could not stay in the Shire with me forever, no matter how much I wanted him to. He managed to swing a few days by claiming that his horse had pulled a muscle, or some such nonsense. The hobbits were all too terrified by the massive horse, gentle as he was, to approach, so no one questioned Bowen's reasoning. For the three days he spent in Hobbiton, the only time we were separated was at night (yes, no nasty thoughts now, kiddies—this is an autobiography, not a bodice-ripper!) and soon Lily and Dahlia were making comments about how _these _flowers would make a _gorgeous _wedding bouquet, and how _pretty _I looked in green (the traditional color that hobbit brides wore). Even my most evil governess-glare couldn't quash their commentary—and Bowen's presence certainly never hindered them in any way!

Too soon, the fourth day dawned, and I met Bowen at the Hobbiton stables, among other things, a hodge-podge first aid kit, complete with bandages, ointments, burn salves, a pair of scissors, and a package of dried herbs.

"I thank you, Gwen," he said, grinning at me as he tied it firmly to his horse's saddle.

"And here's a few meals' worth of food, if you tighten your belt," I said, passing him a sack filled with bread, a wheel of cheese, dried meat, and apples. "And your clean clothes—Rosy fixed the tear in your cloak."

"Will you give her my gratitude?"

"I will."

Awkwardly, we stood looking at each other for a long minute.

"Gwen—" he began just as I said, "Bowen... haha... uh, you go first."

His cheeks burned a little as he took the few steps that separated us and enclosed my hands in his. "I do not want to leave, Gwen."

"Hobbiton does have the habit of growing on you unexpectedly, doesn't it?"

"No, that is not..." he sighed. "I do not want to leave _you,_ Gwen, though I fear I must." I remained silent, heart pounding at about a thousand miles per hour, as he lifted one hand and ran the back of it softly down my cheek. "Know that, now and forever, you have my... my... my admiration and respect." He blushed even deeper. "My king needs me."

_So do I, _I wanted to wail. I wanted to throw myself in his arms and make him swear to never leave—but of course, I didn't. "Oh. Right, yes, of course. Ara—Elessar needs you more than I do."

A look of pain spasmed across his face.

"That's not what I meant, Bowen! Oh, botheration. I _want_ you to stay, too, but—but he's a king. As in, has the fate of an entire country in his hands. You help him do that. I don't think it would be right for me to steal away his most faithful messenger."

The doubt seeped out of those clear hazel eyes of his, and I breathed a sigh of relief, releasing my hands from his grasp and wrapping them around his waist, pulling him into a hug. He put his own arms around my shoulders, and I felt him kiss the top of my head. I felt myself verging dangerously on tears—_no no NO. Bad. Badbadbadbadbad. _Cough_MarySue_cough. _Damnit, suck it up, Gwen! Don't be a baby!_

_Oooh, but I wanna..._

_You'll see him again._

_How do you know? _

_I just _do. _Now, trust me already and stop sobbing. You're making him uncomfortable._

Panicked, I wrenched myself out of my internal argument, and found that my other-self had been somewhat exaggerating the situation. Sure, I was crying a little, but I certainly wasn't _sobbing_—and Bowen didn't seem uncomfortable at all.

Sniffling slightly, I pulled out of the embrace and smiled bravely up at him. "All right, now, get going. You've wasted enough time here—I'm sure Elessar needs you back yesterday."

"I did not _waste _time here, Gwen."

_Oh, botheration. _

To save myself from further humiliation, I snapped into governess mode. "Regardless, _you're _the one who reminded me that the King needs you. Now, stop being so sweet or I'll be forced to hog-tie you to keep you here, and screw Elessar. Figuratively speaking, of course."

He laughed, though it was a little strained. "Bawdy girl."

My smile was pinched. "Prudish boy."

He beamed at me one last time, squeezed my hand, kissed my cheek, and mounted his horse. "You will write to me?"

"Of course." I hugged my arms and forced myself to smile up at him. "And Bowen? Don't forget—you promised to show me the sky from the White Tower."

"I will not forget."

With that, he clucked to his horse and rode out of Hobbiton—and, or so I was sure of then—out of my life.

* * *

"Gwen, stop moping!"

"I'm not moping."

"You're sulking."

"Sulking and moping are _not _the same thing."

"Yes, they are!" countered Faramir as Goldilocks struggled to physically haul me to my feet. I resisted her efforts by clinging to my bed's headboard.

"No, they're not. To sulk means 'to be sullenly aloof or withdrawn,' while to mope means 'to be gloomy or dejected,'" I said. "I need to get one of those signs that say 'Rule Number One: The Teacher is Always Right. Rule Number Two: In Case She Is Wrong, Refer To Rule Number One.'"

Goldilocks snorted.

"Really, Goldie, that isn't very ladylike."

"Neither is staying abed all day, sighing over that Gondorian man of yours. Really, Gwen! It's been six months!"

"Six months without a word," I said, sighing.

"There! See! You sighed!"

Faramir rolled his eyes at his Goldilocks. "Congratulations, Captain Obvious."

I stared at him for a very, very long moment. And then I laughed. No, laughed isn't the right term—howled, more likely. I laughed until my sides ached and tears were streaming down my face—I laughed until my throat was sore and both hobbits were slowly backing away from me. But hey, can you blame me? _You_ would go into hysterics too, to hear such a very proper young hobbit using an Americanism like that. I was positive I would laugh myself to death.

"Well, now that you've got _that_ out of your system," Faramir, who seemed to have adopted my habit of snarkiness, said, "get up."

"No."

"Now."

"No."

"Gwenith Sherbourn, _get out of bed!_" he said, stamping his foot in comical anger.

"Make me."

_Uh-oh... wrong thing to say_, I thought as Faramir gave Goldilocks a very arch look. She simpered back and blithely leapt onto the bed, pinning down my arms and legs. Hobbits, for all their small size, are surprisingly strong.

"Very well, then," Faramir said in an unconcerned voice as he circled around to the end of the bed. I yelped as the blanket was pulled back, exposing my bare toes to the cold air.

"Oh, Far!" I wailed. "Don't!"

"You gave me permission."

"Did not!"

"You said that I should _make _you get up, which implies permission to do anything that would get you out of bed, you lazy girl!" he countered, and set about tickling my toes. I dissolved into giggles, futilely attempting to kick him away; Goldie held me down tight, grinning.

"N-n-n-no! B-blasted---_hahahaha—_Took!"

"Ready to get up, Gwennie?" Goldilocks chirped.

"Y-y-y-hahaha—yes! Just—ahhh—call off your h-h-hounds!"

Faramir suddenly bounced over to the side of the bed, a frown on his face. "Are you calling me a dog?"

Wiping tears of mirth away from my face, I sat up as Goldie slithered off the bed. "Of course not. Wanna cookie?"

The reference, of course, made no sense to the young hobbit, who merely looked at me with worried uncertainty.

"No, I'm not insane. I think." I sighed and reluctantly crawled out from under the warm blankets; Master Gamgee's house, where I was staying for the winter, was uncomfortably cool despite the many fires kept roaring. _Only a few weeks until spring, thank Eru. _"There. I'm up. Now what did you want, you horrid little toads, you?"

"We didn't. Mamma did," Goldilocks said.

"Brill," I said, pulling a dressing-robe on over my nightgown. It was my day off, and I intended to spend it how I would spend a free day back home—writing, sleeping, daydreaming, and otherwise wasting time.

"Honestly, Gwen, you say the _strangest_ things sometimes," Goldilocks observed, tugging absently on one of her curls. "You've missed breakfast, by the way, but I saved you some toasted bread and porridge."

I hesitated, thinking about what she just said, and couldn't suppress a grin. Goldilocks saved me some porridge. _I really have to tell her that story one day! _"Thanks, kid," was all I said, resting an arm on top of each other heads. "Ah, the perfect height."

For that, I was severely poked from both sides. My shrieks of mingled pain and mirth echoed through the hole, prompting several more golden-brown, curly heads to pop out of doorways. For myself, I was too busy fending off the little monsters to notice who was standing in the kitchen, watching me with crossed arms and a smirk.

"Now, now, littles. That's no way to treat our girl, is it?"

Goldie and Faramir withdrew obediently, and I sucked in a breath, straightening and smoothing out my rumpled dressing gown. When I was reasonably well-ordered, I turned to face our guest. Rosie lingered behind him, her head bobbing and her face positively glowing with cheer.

"Master Pippin!" I said with a smile, making a small obeisance. "What brings you to Hobbiton, sir?"

"Passing fair news, Gwenith, passing fair!" he said, grinning widely. Compulsively, he strode up to me and pumped my hand several times in a congratulatory manner, though I had no idea for what he might be congratulating me. "I wager that Rosie will want to tell you, though."

Curiosity was chewing through me faster than worms in an apple, and I turned my gaze to Rosie, who had begun to bounce on the balls of her feet. Her youngest, Robin, cooed appreciatively and wound his fat little fist in his mother's errant curls. "Oh, Gwen! It's so exciting! King Elessar's daughter is to be wed to the son of Lord Faramir, and we've been invited!"

Faramir gave a great _whoop_ and Goldilocks squealed, hugging him; Master Pippin laughed, and Rosie bounced higher. Robin cooed again.

I stared.

"...Gwen?"

"We're going to Ithilien?" I asked at length, barely able to stand the three seconds between question and answer that Rosie wasted on smiling.

"We're going to Ithilien."

I stared for a few more minutes, and then shrieked happily, doing my own utterly dorky happy dance right there in the middle of the corridor. "We're going to Ithilien, we're going to Ithilien!" I chanted. Soon Goldilocks and Faramir and (to my immense amusement) Master Pippin had joined in, and we were all dancing around in circles.

_We're going to Ithilien!

* * *

_

**Yeah. This chapter's crap. Sorry.**


End file.
